THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/J, 


Colo72el  Greatheart 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/colonelgreathearOObailiala 


■1/ 


".*;'.- 


Colonel  Greatheart 

By 

H.  C.  BAILEY 


With  Illustrations  by 

LESTER  RALPH 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1908 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


October 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  4.  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTER." 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTBR 

How  THE  World  Looked  Then 

I  The  Lady  Lepe  Meets  Twin  Brethren 

II  The  Impertinence  of  Joan  Normandy 

III  The  Inspiration  of  Colonel  Stow 

IV  Colonel  Stow  Sees  His  Inspiration     . 
V  My  Lady  Lepe  Takes  Off  Her  Petticoats 

VI  A  Person  of  Importance 

VII  Colonel  Stow  Is  Again  Inspired 

VIII  Upon  the  Use  of  a  Nose 

IX  Concerning  the  Angel  Uriel 

X  Cornet  Tompkins  Snaps^at  a  Shadow 

XI  Colonel  Royston  Deserts  a  Lady 

XII  Colonel  Stow  Makes  a  Mistake 

XIII  Mr.  Bourne  Is  Sorry 

XIV  Colonel  Royston  Stays  by  a  Lady 
XV  "Why  Come  Ye  Not  to  Court?" 

XVI  Colonel  Royston  Breaks  His  Sword 

XVII  Ingeminating  Peace 

XVIII  My  Lord  Digby  Upon  Woman 

XIX  Newbury  Vale 

XX  Mistress  Normandy  Sees  a  Friend 

XXI  Colonel  Stow  Keeps  the  Peace 

XXII  Lovers'  Meeting         .... 

XXIII  LuciNDA  Weeps  .... 

XXIV  The  Home  of  Lost  Causes 
XXV  The  Surprise  of  Lucinda 

XXVI  Colonel  Stow  Warns  His  Friend 


I 

7 
i6 

24 
34 
43 
51 
60 

69 

77 
87 
96 
103 
108 
117 
125 
138 
146 
163 
168 
177 
187 
192 
199 
205 
213 
220 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTKX  PAGB 

XXVII  The  Lieutenant-General  Finds  an  Honest 

Man 232 

XXVIII  At  Witney  Town 241 

XXIX  At  Bablockhithe 250 

XXX  Colonel  Stow  Resolves  to  Laugh        .       .  257 

XXXI  The  Commissary  General  Is  Disappointed  271 

XXXII  LuciNDA  Is  Wooed 275 

XXXIII  Joan  Normandy  Plays  Proxy  .       .       .281 

XXXIV  LucindaIsWed       ' 286 

XXXV  Colonel  Stow  Is  Shown  His  Duty         .        .  293 

XXXVI  Colonel  Rich  Is  Interrupted        .       .       .303 

XXXVII  The  King  Turns 318 

XXXVIII  Lucinda  Is  Again  an  Inspiration           .       .  329 

XXXIX  The  King  Looks  Through  His  Fingers        .  343 

XL  A  Cavalier  Dies 358 

XLI  Wife  and  Maid           368 

XLII  The  Night  Alarm 372 

XLIII  Molly  Proposes 380 

XLIV  Friends 388 

XLV  Colonel  Stow  Is  Ready 398 

XLVI  Lucinda  Is  Logical           404 

XLVII  Colonel  Stow  Is  Awaked        ....  409 

XLVIII  A  Husband  or  So 418 

XLIX  Colonel  Royston  Delivers  His  Soul          .  423 

L  The  Lieutenant-General  Speaks         .       ,  434 

LI  The  Last  Inspiration  of  Lucinda          .       .  443 

LII  Lucinda  Goes  Out  to  the  Night           .       .  450 

LIII  Colonel  Stow  Knows  Himself              ,       .  453 

LIV  Colonel  Stow  Explains  Himself          .       .  460 

LV  The  Master  of  All           466 


Colonel  Great  heart 


COLONEL  GREATHEART 

INTRODUCTORY 

HOW   THE   WORLD   LOOKED   THEN 

JERRY  STOW  admired  himself.  He  was  at  length 
doing  his  duty.  Also  his  legs  pleased  him. 
Through  some  years  he  had  cherished  ambitions  for 
those  legs  and  himself,  linked  with  unworthy  cir- 
cumstance. Now  he  was  off  to  the  wars  and  his  legs 
in  golden  silk  stockings. 

Before  the  first  beat  of  manhood  in  his  blood  it 
had  been  plain  to  him  that  "he  was  born  to  heroic 
matters.  He  was  for  alarms  and  great  deeds  and  a 
white  blaze  of  fame.  He  must  plunge  into  world 
wars,  must  win  world  renown,  be  a  sober  Alexander, 
a  Caesar  of  respectability.  Now,  with  the  spring 
storms  of  manhood  wild  in  him,  and  its  first  alarm- 
ing wisdom,  he  had  persuaded  even  a  doubting 
father  that  he  was  not  made  to  work  his  life  out 
easily  in  the  fat  tilth  of  Stoke  Mandeville — was  at 
least  no  use  there.  He  was  emancipated  from  home. 
He  was  out  of  the  worsted  and  linsey  and  into  silk 
and  brocade.    He  was  off  to  ride  behind  the  Lion  of 

I 


2  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

the  North  and  hew  himself  greatness  out  of  the  Aus- 
trian Papists.  Dreams  were  coming  true.  His  legs 
and  his  soul  rejoiced.  Life  was  delectable.  And  his 
father  should  be  taught  to  take  him  seriously. 

There  was  a  wild  wind  of  spring,  and  blue  clouds 
clashed  in  a  gray  sky.  The  daylight  was  pale,  and 
across  it  the  long  rampart  of  hills  stood  dull  black. 
Over  the  dark  green  slope  that  swells  slowly  to 
Akeman  Street  the  wind  smote  a  scattered  army  of 
trees,  and  roared  and  whistled  its  anthem.  Old 
trunks  of  silver  gray  tossed  their  great  black  deli- 
cate crests  to  the  wild  music,  and  the  poplars,  lean 
boughs  already  gemmed  with  gold,  trembled  and 
swayed  and  cowered.  Glad  of  his  strength  as  the 
wind  came  Jerry  Stow.  His  brilliant  legs  bore  him 
with  a  lilt;  nostril  and  eye  were  wide,  eager  of  joy. 
He  seemed  even  to  expect  it  at  once.  The  sight  of 
Sir  Godfrey  Weston  taking  the  air  according  to 
custom  affected  him  with  instant  delight,  for  Sir 
Godfrey  had  in  hand  his  daughter.  She  was  then  a 
child  in  her  first  teens,  and,  as  I  infer,  can  have  been 
no  more  beautiful  than  any  clean,  healthy  girl,  but 
she  had,  doubtless  even  so  early,  gaiety  and  an  air. 
Certainly  she  was  born  to  be  a  queen  and  might  have 
made  no  blunder  of  it.  The  least  nerve  of  her  was 
keenly  alive.  She  lacked,  it  may  be,  something  of  a 
child's  sweet  weakness,  but,  if  she  asked  you  nothing, 
she  promised  much.  The  quick  scarlet  lips,  her 
valiant  eyes,  the  vivid  touch  of  red  in  her  brown 
hair,  were  apt  already  to  make  men  think  of  their 


HOW   THE    WORLD    LOOKED    THEN    3 

manhood.  You  might  guess  that  it  was  no  more 
than  this  child  that  had  made  an  end  of  the  boy  in 
Jerry  Stow. 

Sir  Godfrey  Weston,  who  saw  many  things  if  he 
did  little,  saw  this,  perhaps.  There  was  something 
of  the  contempt  that  made  his  only  amusement  on 
the  lean  pallid  face  as  he  stayed  before  the  re- 
splendent Jerry  Stow.  Jerry  saluted  him  with  awk- 
ward profundity.  Sir  Godfrey  put  up  one  finger. 
The  child  smiled  gay:  "Good  morrow,  Jerry,"  says 
she.     "Whither  bound?" 

Jerry  Stow  saluted  her  all  over  again.  "I  am 
glad  we  are  met,  my  lady,"  quoth  he,  purely  red, 
"for  I  am  desirous  to  bid  you  farewell." 

"  'Tis  a  most  correct  sentiment,  Stow,"  Sir  God- 
frey agreed. 

Jerry  disliked  the  tone.  "I  am  off  to  the  wars,  you 
must  know,  sir,"  said  he  with  some  magnificence. 
Sir  Godfrey  raised  level  eyebrows. 

But  the  child  was  delighted.  "Truly?  Like  the 
stories  you  tell?    And  will  you  be  long?" 

"I'll  not  be  back  in  the  vale,  my  lady,"  says  Jerry, 
conscious  of  golden  legs,  "till  I  am  somewhat  more 
than  Jerry  Stow." 

Sir  Godfrey  yawned.  He  did  not  appear  to  think 
the  ambition  extravagant. 

"But  I  like  Jerry  Stow,"  said  the  child. 

Jerry  Stow  appeared  to  be  in  some  discomfort. 
"I  shall  make  him  better  worth  liking,"  said  he  with 
more  solemnity  than  the  child  required. 


4  COLONEL    GREATIIEART 

"You  are  a  fool,  boy.  Probably  God  will  be  with 
you.    Come,  Lucinda,"  said  Sir  Godfrey. 

"But  I  want  to  know,"  the  child  protested.  "Do 
you  think  they  will  make  you  a  prince?  Or  a  duke, 
perhaps  ?    And  will  you  be  very  rich  ?" 

"If  I  live,"  said  Jerry  Stow,  with  his  chest  out,  "I 
shall  win  fame.   I  ambition  no  more." 

The  child  looked  something  of  a  different  opinion. 
Sir  Godfrey  tapped  his  chin.  "Answer  a  fool  ac- 
cording to  his  folly,  Lucinda,"  says  he  pleasantly. 
"Friend  fool,  ambition  much  of  the  world,  desire 
much.  So  shalt  thou  surely  live  miserably  and  in 
misery  die.  And  for  the  hereafter,  happiest  are  you 
who  have  known  hell  here." 

"If  I  covet  honor,  sir,"  cried  Jerry  Stow,  "  'tis  in 
an  honorable  emprise.  I  would  fight  for  no  cause 
but  the  right." 

"There  is  none,"  said  Sir  Godfrey  Weston  with 
another  yawn.  "  'God  with  us !'  roars  your  Lu- 
theran. 'In  the  name  of  the  Virgin !'  the  Papist 
screams.  Fool,  do  you  think  God  such  a  fool  as  to 
trust  His  honor  to  any  man  ?  There  is  no  cause  worth 
a  man's  sorrow,  none  whereof  the  victory  is.  well 
bought  by  a  man's  death.  'Tis  in  the  scheme  of 
things  no  faith  shall  ever  conquer,  and  thus  the  fools 
who  believe  hammer  each  other  out.  Your  wise  man 
stands  off  from  all,  believes  nothing,  as  he  loves 
nothing  and  hopes  nothing.  You  have  the  felicity  to 
be  a  fool.  So  again,  God  be  with  you.  You  should 
amuse  Him.    Come,  Lucinda." 


HOW    THE    WORLD    LOOKED    THEN    5 

This  maker  of  phrases  was  something  beyond 
Jerry  Stow.  He  stood  at  gaze.  The  philosophy  of 
Diogenes,  I  take  it,  was  amazing  to  him  even  in  the 
end.  But  the  child  smiled  back  at  him,  and  he  went 
through  the  wind  high  at  heart.  Already  he  felt 
himself  climbing  to  a  nobler  estate  than  was  hers  of 
birth,  beheld  himself  her  worshipped  lord. 

Bolder  the  wind  roared,  and  the  blue  clouds  mar- 
shalled heavy  in  the  grayness.  It  was  dark  in  the 
beech  spinney  above  the  inn,  and  Jerry,  plunging 
across  it,  caught  strange  sounds,  heard  a  ghastly 
voice  moan  from  the  invisible:  "Mine  iniquities  are 
gone  over  mine  head,  my  wounds  stink  and  are  cor- 
rupt; yea,  I  go  mourning  all  the  day  long.  ..." 
There  came  the  horrible  music  of  a  man's  tears. 
Jerry  Stow  hurried  on,  ashamed.  .  .  .  "Of  a  truth 
I  am  the  chief,  the  chief  of  sinners.  O  Lord,  thou 
knowest.  .  .  .  Nay,  verily,  the  Lord  standeth  up 
to  plead.  ..."  A  break  of  light  showed  the 
mourner.  It  was  a  loose  fellow  that  stood  working 
his  hands  and  boring  his  heels  into  the  ground. 
Jerry  Stow  saw  a  sturdy  red  ridge  of  nose  and  a 
coarse  fleshy  face,  swollen  and  dark.  He  went  on  in 
a  hurry,  for  this  Mr.  Cromwell,  cousin  of  Squire 
Hampden,  was  thought  to  be  possessed  at  hours. 
The  harsh  voice  rose  higher:  "The  Lord,  the  Lord 
will  enter  into  judgment  with  the  ancients  of  His 
people  and  the  princes  thereof:  For  ye  have  eaten 
the  vineyard,  ye  beat  my  people  to  pieces.  The 
Lord  shall  repay." 


6       COLONEL  GREATHEART 

Jerry  Stow  came  out  of  the  spinney  to  meet  the 
breaking  storm.  Quick  whirls  of  snow  blinded  him, 
and  the  driven  hail  cut  temple  and  cheek.  All  the 
air  was  a  warring  medley  of  ice. 


CHAPTER    ONE 

THE   LADY   LEPE   MEETS   TWIN    BRETHREN 

IT  was  the  year  of  grace  1643  when  Jerry  Stow 
made  for  home  again.  War  called  him.  Eng- 
land was  rent  in  twain.  King  stood  against  Parlia- 
ment, Church  against  Puritan.  The  second  great 
battle  of  the  free  spirit  of  man  against  the  power  of 
the  past  was  begun.  For  the  sternest  fighters  were 
those  who  strove  to  make  each  man  in  England  mas- 
ter of  his  own  life,  captain  of  his  own  soul.  But  to 
the  best  of  their  foes  it  seemed  that  the  war  was  of 
mad,  arrogant  fanatics  who  would  sweep  away  the 
good  heritage  of  England  and  her  divine  faith. 
Both  were  right,  it  may  be,  and  both  wrong,  for 
those  who  are  marshalled  on  the  stricken  fields  of 
the  world's  fate  see  no  more  than  the  spirit  and  for- 
tune of  their  own  battalion,  know  not  the  true  peril 
or  the  issue  of  the  day.  But  when  the  fight  is  done 
and  the  peaceful  work  of  death,  men  see  there  has 
been  no  victory  and  no  defeat.  The  battle-field  is  a 
furnace  whereby  all  base  in  either  cause  is  burned 
out  till,  when  the  fire  dies  down,  there  is  left  one  fair 
faith  to  be  the  glory  and  comfort  of  all  men  after. 
But  for  Jerry  Stow  and  his  day  the  fl,ame  was  grim. 

7 


8       COLONEL  GREATHEART 

If  you  should  make  for  the  vale  of  Aylesbury 
from  a  southern  port,  you  would  be  happy  to  cross 
the  Thames  at  Wallingford  and  come  like  the  men 
of  old  years  by  the  Icknield  Way.  Then  you  are 
given  the  full  joy  of  the  woodland  hills.  By  many  a 
mile  they  stand  sheer  above  you  in  timeless  strength. 
Serried  ranks  of  trees  rise  to  the  sky,  beech  and 
larch,  that  are  red  and  golden  yellow  in  the  spring- 
time, then  countless  quiet  glad  harmonies  of  green, 
then  a  wide  flame  of  crimson  and  topaz  and  orange 
before  they  come  to  the  feathery  grace,  the  black 
and  brown  and  silver  of  the  wintertide. 

The  red  buds  had  but  just  come  upon  the  larch, 
the  beeches  waved  yet  in  naked  beauty  when  Jerry 
Stow  rode  by.  He  came  with  a  companion,  with 
state.  There  were  armed  followers  and  led  horses 
not  ill  laden.  He  had  gained  something  about  the 
chest  also,  and  the  air  and  habit  of  command  to  set 
off  his  moustachios.  He  rode  a  good  horse  as  it'  de- 
served. He  was  plainly,  yet  with  no  parade,  the  sol- 
dier. Still  he  preserved  his  nature.  The  plain  buff 
coat  had  a  touch  of  original  gaiety,  a  sash  of  rare 
blue.  You  behold  him  now,  a  trim  fellow  of  the 
middle  size,  with  an  honest,  wholesome,  pale  face, 
wherein  brown  eyes  are  earnestly  glad.  His  com- 
panion is  of  larger  make,  big  each  way.  He  too  is 
soldierly,  but  no  splash  of  color  mars  the  neat  so- 
briety of  him.  He  is  plump  of  cheek  and  handsome, 
with  lips  set  in  demure  mirth.  He  has  the  com- 
plexion of  a  country  lass.     There  is  to  me  much 


LADY  LEPE  MEETS  TWIN  BRETHREN       9 

alluring  in  this  Colonel  George  Royston.  So  they 
jingled  on  with  their  company  through  the  swift 
wanton  April  sunshine,  as  proud  of  life  .as  the 
thrushes. 

They  were  close  upon  the  Oxford  road  where  it 
rises  through  the  woodland  defile  by  Aston  Rowant 
when  they  alarmed  a  lady.  It  was  something  of  a 
buxom  dame  that  rode  with  one  serving  man  to  her 
train,  and  rode  badly  enough.  The  sound  .and  the 
sight  of  men  of  war  behind  her  made  her  vacillate 
pathetically.  Now  she  turned  to  gaze,  and,  mislik- 
ing  them,  drove  her  horse  on.  Now  she  looked  again 
and  liked  them  better,  and  fell  to  her  first  easy 
pace.  Then  meditation  brought  doubt  back,  and  she 
spurred  again.  But  the  end  of  it  all  was,  they  came 
upon  her  before  the  cross-roads. 

"  'Tis  the  common  vice  of  woman.  She  thinks  she 
matters  to  us,"  quoth  Colonel  Royston. 

"If  she  had  run  away  she  might  have  had  charm," 
said  Colonel  Stow,  and  they  drew  level. 

The  lady  was  of  a  fair  comeliness.  She  looked  at 
them  sidewise.  "Are  you  for  the  King,  gentlemen?" 
says  she. 

"He  has  not  that  happiness,"  quoth  Colonel  Roy- 
ston. 

"For  the  Parliament,  then?"  she  cried. 

"Nor  is  the  King  so  unfortunate,"  quoth  Colonel 
Stow. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  sir,"  says  she,  biting 
her  lip. 


lo  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Believe  me,"  said  Colonel  Royston  sweetly,  "we 
did  not  expect  it." 

"You  resent  my  questions,  gentlemen  ?"  she  cried. 

"Nay,  we  enjoy  the  answers,"  said  Colonel  Stow 
with  a  bow. 

"At  least,  sir,  you  are  in  truth  no  Roundheads  ?" 

"The  fashion,"  said  Colonel  Royston,  "is  purely  a 
discord  with  my  complexion." 

"Which  indeed  I  admire,"  says  she  with  some 
spirit. 

"I  am  wholly  of  the  same  mind,"  Colonel  Royston 
admitted. 

"Since  we  are  thus  in  accord,"  quoth  she,  "I  would 
pray  leave  to  be  of  your  company." 

There  was  some  hesitation.  "The  honor,  mad- 
ame,  is  ours.  But  I  can  not  think  much  pleasure  will 
be  yours,"  quoth  Colonel  Stow. 

"Sir,  I  am  a  lone  woman — " 

"I'll  swear  you  are  not  to  blame  for  it,"  Colonel 
Royston  muttered. 

" — and  the  country  hereby  is  disturbed — " 

"Oh,  madame,  you  shall  be  protected  from  any- 
thing but  justice,"  said  Colonel  Royston  with  ill 
grace. 

"The  woman  who  gets  but  justice  gets  nothing," 
quoth  Colonel  Stow. 

"Indeed,  sir,"  says  she  heartily,  "I  want  all  you 
can  give  a  woman  who  can  give  you  nothing.  But 
'tis  not  from  justice  I  would  be  guarded.  This  is 
debatable  land,  and  I  fear  the  scum  of  both  armies." 


LADY  LEPE  MEETS  TWIN  BRETHREN     1 1 

"I  commend  your  equal  condemnation,"  said 
Colonel  Stow. 

"Nay,  sir,"  says  she  with  dignity,  "I  am  heart  and 
soul  with  the  King." 

"Why  grudge  him  the  body,  too?"  yawned  Colo- 
nel Royston. 

"Sir,  he  hath  all  my  spiritual  part — " 

"That  should  be  a  husband?"  Colonel  Stow  in- 
quired politely. 

"Why — why  in  truth,  sir,"  she  spoke  through 
laughter — then  with  some  struggling  emotion — "my 
husband  can  not  now  be  with  me"' — she  made  eyes  at 
them — "save  in  my  heart." 

"Faith,  his  tribe  should  not  be  at  large,"  Colonel 
Royston  agreed. 

"I,  gentlemen,  am  called  my  Lady  Lepe,  and — " 

Colonel  Royston's  bow  seemed  to  offer  his  compli- 
ments on  the  name.  The  two  presented  each  other, 
and  my  Lady  Lepe  smiled  on  them  both.  She  was 
indeed  comely,  though  something  much  buxom,  and 
her  eyes  pleasantly  wicked. 

"I  have  a  friend,"  she  went  on,  "who  is — who  is 
more  than  a  sister  to  me.  She  is  now  in  sore  need, 
and  I  only  can  help  her.  It  is  to  her  I  ride.  My 
way  is  by  Risborough,  and  if  you  would  see  me  safe 
there,  I — my  husband  would  ever  be  grateful." 

"I  love  all  husbands,"  said  Colonel  Royston  with 
enthusiasm.  "They  are  the  scapegoats  of  my  sex. 
If,  as  you  suspect,  it  is  a  kindness  to  him  to  help  you 
away  from  him,  command  us." 


12  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"I  perceive,  sir,  you  tempt  fate.  Some  day  you 
will  be  even  such  a  husband  as  mine." 

"Your  courtship  flatters  me,"  Colonel  Royston  ad- 
mitted, "but  is  at  least  forbid  by  several  religions. 
Moreover,  to  economize  in  wives  were  miserly  in  a 
man." 

"I  see  that  I  have  to  suspect  you  of  morality," 
said  the  lady.  "  'Tis  rare  in  gentlemen  who  ride 
with  an  armed  tail.  And  upon  that  matter — against 
whom  are  you  armed  ?" 

"Against  the  wide  world,"  quoth  Colonel  Stow, 
and  gave  a  new  point  to  his  beard. 

"We  fight  for  ourselves,  according  to  the  honor- 
able fashion  of  High  Germany,"  said  Colonel  Roy- 
ston. 

"Having  learned  the  same  by  the  side  of  the  great 
Gustavus — " 

"Whom  I  will  ever  uphold  as  the  original  begetter 
of  cavalry  tactic,  though  certainly  of  a  deplorable 
taste  in  psalmody." 

"Likewise  with  Bernhard  of  Weimar,  who  would 
have  been  a  Caesar  if  he  had  ever  waited  for  the  in- 
fantry and  never  for  women." 

"Finally  with  M.  de  Turenne — " 

"Who  is  la  guerre  meme  and  no  gentleman." 

"I  applaud  your  duetto,"  says  the  lady  with  a 
smile.    "You  are  surely  twin  brethren?" 

"Madame,  you  insult  my  friend,"  cried  Colonel 
Royston. 

"Nay,  we  should  like  each  other  less  if  we  were 


LADY  LEPE  MEETS  TWIN  BRETHREN     13 

alike,"  quoth  Colonel  Stow.  "I  ever  applaud  my 
antithesis.  Faith,  madame,  already  I  feel  an  affec- 
tion for  you." 

"The  softness  of  his  heart  hath  ever  betrayed  him, 
madame.  'Twas  that  beguiled  him  to  unworthy 
wedlock  with  me.  'Tis  one  with  an  unmanly  desire 
to  be  a  savior." 

"  'Tis  one,  madame,  with  an  inhuman  power  to 
laugh  at  himself,"  Colonel  Stow  echoed. 

"In  truth,  I  marked  in  Jerry  a  poor  relish  for 
humor  from  the  first,"  quoth  Royston.  "He  could 
not  see  the  jest  when  on  the  night  of  Breitenfeld 
some  honest  Frenchmen  were  amusing  themselves 
with  a  broken  thigh  of  mine." 

"It  is  a  rudeness  to  presume  the  lady  interested  in 
your  legs,  George,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  some  kindness.  "And 
since  that  matter  of  the  legs  you  have  been  brothers 
in  arms?" 

"Jerry  has  been  so  unhappy.  With  Gustav  Adolf, 
with  Bernhard — a  man  of  my  heart  if  he  had  only 
cared  to  keep  alive — with  M.  de  Turenne — till  he 
made  himself  impossible  in  desiring  to  hang  a  gen- 
tleman whom  we  desired  to  ransom.  We  removed 
the  gentleman  and  ourselves,  and  are  here  for  Eng- 
land to  give  us  the  greatness  we  deserve.  Pray, 
madame,  how  lies  England?"  (Colonel  Royston 
proceeded  to  get  a  return  for  his  innocent  frank- 
ness.) "How  stands  the  war?  Propound  us  the 
victor." 


14  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

The  lady  bridled.  "Victor,  sir?  It  were  madness 
to  believe  that  a  base  mechanic  army  can  stand 
against  the  gentry  of  England." 

Colonel  Stow  put  up  his  eyebrows.  Colonel  Roys- 
ton  whistled  a  small  tune.  "Every  man  of  honor  and 
blood  is  with  the  King!"  she  cried. 

"Tira  lira,"  said  Colonel  Royston.  "I  have  heard 
tell  that  the  men  of  religion  are  against  him,  and  I 
had  rather  fight  ten  men  of  honor  than  one  with  a 
conviction  of  sin." 

"They  are  mazed  whining  Anabaptists,"  said  the 
lady  with  indignation.  "They  have  never  endured 
our  charge.  And  what  of  our  generals?  We  have 
Prince  Rupert,  who  is  the  greatest  soldier  now 
alive." 

She  brought  their  eyebrows  up  again.  Royston 
said  something  smoothly  dubious.  With  zeal  she 
went  on.  She  told  them  of  the  wealth  and  munitions 
of  Oxford,  the  forces  there  and  in  the  west,  and 
gave  each  army  its  place.  Flaming  anew  to  each 
neat  hint  of  doubt,  she  told  of  Rupert  and  Newcastle 
in  the  north,  and  Rupert's  new  last  plan  of  war: 
how  from  three  sides  the  Royalists  were  to  close 
upon  London  and  crush  that  halting  generalissimo 
my  Lord  Essex  and  put  him  in  the  coffin  he  bore 
always  with  him,  and  bring  the  King  in  triumph  to 
Whitehall.  My  Lady  Lepe  had  vast  and  curious 
knowledge  of  things.    .    .    . 

And  she  did  not  note  that  for  all  their  first  un- 
sought eager  frankness  she  was  telling  them  vastly 


LADY  LEPE  MEETS  TWIN  BRETHREN     15 

more  than  she  had  been  told.  It  was  this,  perhaps, 
which  made  Colonel  Royston  look  kindly  upon  her 
when  they  halted  in  Chinnor  to  bait.  "So  victory  is 
the  King's,  madame?"  said  he,  with  a  last  skeptic 
smile. 

"Sir,"  says  she  vehemently,  "  'tis  as  sure  as — 
as — 

"As  that  you  are  a  woman,"  quoth  he,  ki.ssing  her 
hand  as  he  took  her  from  the  saddle. 

She  freed  herself  swiftly.  "Of  that,  sir,  no  man 
shall  ever  be  glad,  save  one."  She  languished.  Her 
bosom  heaved  admirably.  "Him  I  have  in  my 
heart,"  she  murmured. 

"I  wonder  if  he  is  in  any  other,"  said  Colonel 
Royston,  and  went  in  after  her,  something  pensive, 
caressing  a  moustachio. 


CHAPTER   TWO 

THE   IMPERTINENCE   OF   JOAN    NORMANDY 

THE  "Bird  in  Hand"  was  their  inn.  It  was  a 
thought  excited  by  Colonel  Stow's  polyglot 
train.  Alcibiade,  a  plump  Picard,  dealt  plainly  with 
the  hostler.  Matthieu-Marc-Luc  (thus  called  be- 
cause it  was  ever  his  task  to  publish  the  good  news 
of  dinner)  flurried  the  cook.  In  an  upper  room  my 
Lady  Lepe  stood  by  a  little  window  of  bull's-eye 
glass  and  watched  the  hill  of  larches  flush  and 
darken  beneath  the  swift  cloud  shadow  and  the  wind. 
Jerry  Stow  was  at  her  shoulder.  From  the  chimney 
corner  Royston  regarded  the  pair  with  gentle  melan- 
choly. 

"So  if  we  would  prosper  you  bid  us  fight  for  the 
King,  madame?"  quoth  Colonel  Stow. 

She  turned  upon  him.  "Nay,  sir,  if  you  be  men  of 
honor  you  can  seek  no  other  cause,"  she  cried  with 
flashing  eyes. 

"I  am  a  man  of  the  soil,"  said  Colonel  Stow  with- 
out emotion.  "A  king  is  no  more  to  me  than  my  fel- 
low.  If  he  needs  me,  let  him  pay  me." 

"Is  your  honor  for  hire?"  says  the  lady,  fiercely 
scornful. 

i6 


JOAN    NORMANDY  17 

Colonel  Stow  looked  at  her  keenly.  "Madame," 
quoth  he,  "what  is't  you  want  most  in  the  world?" 

Royston  was  surprised  by  her  blush.  "I — I — " 
she  was  in  difficulty — "a  woman  tells  that  to  no  man 
but  one.  Colonel  Stow,"  she  said  in  a  hurry. 

Colonel  Stow  bowed.  "To  come  by  what  I  want  I 
must  needs  win  fame  and  high  place.  And  so  I  have 
set  my  life  on  that." 

"And  I  mine  upon  dinner,"  quoth  Royston,  and 
fell  a-howling-  for  Matthieu-Marc-Luc,  while  my 
lady  looked  on  Colonel  Stow  more  kindly. 

"You  are  no  man  to  fight  for  canting  rebel 
knaves,"  said  she. 

"Fie  on  it !  All  the  world  cants,"  cried  Royston. 
"Jerry  of  fame,  you  of  your  womanhood,  I  of  my 
belly — which  is  at  least  no  phantom.  May  we  all 
enjoy  them !" 

And  then  to  help  him  came  Matthieu-Marc-Luc, 
lean,  imperious  and  melancholy.  His  genius  yearned 
for  a  stew,  and  they  had  no  intellect  for  it  at  the 
Bird  in  Hand.  The  lady  ate  admirably,  but  else 
was  not  amusing,  and  Royston  and  Stow,  maturing 
between  the  herrings  and  the  coleworts  a  scheme  for 
the  abolition  of  the  monarchy,  psalmody  and  small 
beer,  excited  her  to  no  gratifying  enthusiasm.  They 
were  passing  from  the  coleworts  to  some  matter  of 
pickled  cherries  when  a  chorus  of  view  hallos  inter- 
fered. Royston  turned  languidly.  Jerry  Stow  and 
my  lady,  mercurial  both,  started  to  the  window. 

An    uncomely   throng  surged   down   the   village 


i8  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

street.  It  was  a  tangled  knot  of  green  horsemen 
foaming  on  one  lean  wretch  afoot.  He  had  the 
shorn  head  of  the  Puritan,  the  bands  and  black  gown 
of  the  minister.  He  was  protesting  in  vehement 
screams  from  the  Hebrew  prophets.  But  the  pack  of 
gallant  horsemen  drove  him  on  with  mocking  wanton 
cruelty. 

Colonel  Stow  was  stiffening  in  each  limb.  "Pah, 
'tis  no  more  than  a  whining  Presbyterian,"  quoth  my 
Lady  Lepe,  and  turned  away. 

"If  all  parsons  were  in  Heaven,  the  world  would 
be  better,"  Royston  yawned;  but  he  kept  grave  eyes 
upon  Colonel  Stow,  who  stood  still  and  tense  by  the 
window. 

The  horsemen  drew  up  by  the  inn  and,  tumbling 
down  about  their  quarry,  dragged  him  into  the  tap- 
room. Thence  came  a  weird,  lurid  din  of  drinking 
song  and  lewd  oath,  mingled  with  the  threats  of 
scripture. 

Colonel  Stow,  a  thought  paler,  sat  down  to  the  end 
of  his  dinner.  "Who  are  the  gallants  in  green?"  he 
asked. 

"My  Lord  Goring's  regiment,"  says  my  lady  at 
once,  and  Colonel  Royston  looked  from  under  his 
eyelashes. 

Colonel  Stow  ate  pickled  cherries  with  determina- 
tion, while  below  the  medley  of  ill  sound  endured. 
...  It  was  broken  by  a  new  note.  Colonel  Stow 
cocked  his  head  to  one  side.  A  girl  was  sobbing. 
"Some  one  cries  while  I  dine,"  said  he.     "It  is  an 


JOAN    NORMANDY  19 

impertinence."  And  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and 
went  out 

My  Lady  Lepe  looked  out  of  the  window :  "  'Tis 
only  a  puling  Puritan  wench,"  she  said  with  con- 
tempt, 

"Madame,"  says  Colonel  Royston,  who  was  buck- 
ling on  his  sword,  "your  womanly  sentiments  per- 
petually delight  me,"  and  he  followed  his  friend. 

He  found  Colonel  Stow  at  the  foot  of  the  stair  sur- 
veying circumstance  with  equable  brow.  Beside  the 
tap-room  window  a  girl  wept,  and  Alcibiade,  his 
plump  master  of  the  horse,  and  the  lean  Matthieu- 
Marc  (who  had  a  rival  repute  as  squire  of  dames) 
imparted  consolation  in  several  languages.  But  mine 
host  of  the  Bird  in  Hand  and  some  cronies  stood 
aloof  ,and  jeered.  Colonel  Stow  came  to  her.  "Your 
weeping,  madame,"  says  he,  "makes  the  ungodly  re- 
joice." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  She  was  not  of  the  women 
who  are  beautiful  in  tears.  She  tried  to  speak  to 
him,  and  made  a  miserable  ridiculous  gulp. 

"  'Tis  very  proper  in  you  to  say  so,"  Colonel  Stow 
admitted.  "But  you  need  not  say  it  again.  I  am 
now  in  charge  of  the  affair.    Come  with  me." 

She  touched  his  arm  with  timid  trembling  fingers. 
The  brutal  din  from  the  tap-room  rose  louder.  "My 
father !"  she  gasped. 

"Yes,  but  you  are  in  the  way,"  said  Colonel  Stow 
gently.     "Come." 

Faltering,  doubting — but  his  placidity  was  with 


20  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

power — she  let  him  convey  her,  sobbing,  to  the  door 
and  up  to  that  room  where  my  Lady  Lepe  sat 
yawning. 

"Madame,"  quoth  Colonel  Stow,  "you  can  be 
kinder  here  than  I,"  and  led  the  weeping  girl  to  her 
side. 

My  Lady  Lepe  shrank  back  in  disgust  that  seemed 
to  be  blended  with  some  fear.  "What  have  I  to  do 
with  the  wench  ?"  she  cried. 

"Your  womanhood,  madame,  was  not  made  only 
for  men,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  and  left  them  together. 

The  girl  looked  at  my  Lady  Lepe  with  a  most 
miserable  wet  face,  and  my  Lady  Lepe  flushed  and 
stood  staring  at  her  mighty  awkward. 

Colonel  Stow  came  again  to  the  door  of  the  inn. 
Standing  upon  the  cellar  flap  outside  the  tap-room, 
he  reviewed  the  position.  Mine  host  rolled  up  to  him 
frowning:  "Sir,"  he  growled,  "be  you  a  Round- 
head?" 

Colonel  Stow  began  to  smile.  "Your  humor  has 
attracted  me,"  he  remarked,  "and  yet  you  do  not 
amuse  me.    Is  not  that  melancholy?" 

"I  say,  sir,"  the  fellow  roared,  "be  you  a  Round- 
head?" 

"If  I  were,"  said  Colonel  Stow  sweetly,  "I  could 
not  be  doing  what  I  am.  And  yet  if  I  were  not  to  be, 
it  is  strange  that  I  should  seek  to  be  doing  what  I 
shall  soon  have  done." 

"And  look  you,"  quoth  Royston,  tapping  mine 
host's  puzzled  shoulder,  "though  he  be  not  what  he 


JOAN    NORMANDY  21 

might  be  in  what  he  does,  yet  we  know  that  what  he 
has  done  may  be  no  proof  of  what  he  can  be. 
Wherefore  we  do  all  hope  for  salvation."  Then 
they  both  bowed  to  mine  host — who  had  taken  a  step 
back,  and  stood  gaping. 

Colonel  Stow  took  Royston's  arm  and  turned  him 
to  the  tap-room.  "Go  in,  George.  Make  them 
happy,"  said  he.  Their  eyes  met  for  a  moment. 
Royston  plunged  at  the  door  and  went  in  with  a 
flourish  and  a  snatch  of  song. 

The  drinkers  of  beer 

Did  ne'er  yet  appear 
In  matters  of  any  weight ! 

'Tis  he  whose  design 

Is  quickened  by  wine 
That  raises  things  to  their  height. 

He  was  opportune.  The  sport  of  the  tap-room  had 
grown  keen.  The  Royalists  would  have  the  minister 
sing  for  them  a  lewd  song  of  Davenant's  against  his 
church.  He  steadfastly  denied  them,  and  already 
they  had  a  knotted  cord  about  his  temples.  Colonel 
Royston,  as  he  relates,  proffered  to  show  them  how 
that  torture  was  done  in  High  Germany. 

Outside,  "Alcibiade,  my  friend,"  says  Colonel 
Stow,  "I  am  waiting  for  my  horses."  Alcibiade 
bounded  to  the  stable,  but  was  arrested  in  mid-air  by 
an  order  in  French.  Thereafter  he  bounded  again. 
Mine  host  and  his  lounging  friends  guffawed. 


22  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Colonel  Stow  took  Matthieu-Marc  by  the  elbow 
and  walked  him  through  the  village  till  they  came 
to  the  smithy.  "Matthieu,"  says  he,  "buy  me  two 
pounds  of  tenpenny  nails  and  borrow  me  a  hammer 
withal." 

"The  nails — of  tenpenny,"  Matthieu-Marc  repeat- 
ed, and  his  lean  jaws  halted  wide  asunder. 

While  Matthieu-Marc  turned  into  the  smithy 
Colonel  Stow  continued  to  walk  at  a  gentle  gait 
down  the  road.  His  eyes  wandered  and  appeared  to 
admire  the  cowslips  and  the  speedwell.  Coming  back 
to  the  inn  with  his  nails  and  his  hammer,  Matthieu- 
Marc  found  Alcibiade  waiting  by  the  tap-room  door. 
A  moment  after  Colonel  .Stow  came  running, 
in  much  agitation.  At  sight  of  him  Alcibiade 
heaved  up  the  cellar  flap  and  flung  it  full  wide. 
Mine  host  was  moved  to  wrath  thereby,  and  lum- 
bered at  Alcibiade,  growling:  "  'Od  rot  it!  What 
be  doing,  Frenchman?"  Alcibiade,  who  was  a  man 
of  action,  said  nothing,  but  smote  with  power.  Mine 
host  was  engulfed.  In  the  same  moment  he  was  and 
was  not.  From  the  depths  he  complained.  Colonel 
Stow  by  that  had  his  head  in  at  the  little  tap-room 
window  and  shouted  breathless :  "George,  the 
Roundheads  are  on  us !  Alarm  the  gentlemen !  The 
Roundheads  are  on  us !    A  regiment  of  horse !" 

"Plague  'found  them !"  Royston  roared,  flinging 
down  the  cord  in  which  he  was  making  artful  knots. 
"Saddle,  gentlemen,  saddle!" 

The  gallant  gentlemen  of  Goring's  horse  tumbled 


JOAN    NORMANDY  23 

through  the  door  in  a  heap,  Royston  agitating  from 
behind,  and  in  a  heap  with  frantic  oaths  vanished 
into  the  darkness  of  the  cellar.  Alcibiade  slammed 
down  the  flap  and  stood  on  it.  Matthieu-Marc  swung 
his  hammer  and  drove  the  long  nails  home.  Under- 
ground the  noise  was  confused. 

"You  are  as  neat  as  Providence,  Jerry"  said  Roy- 
ston. 

"I  should  like  to  see  them  come  out,"  Colonel  Stow 
admitted.  "But  one  can  not  have  everything.  It  is 
time  for  us  to  go.  Slit  their  horses'  girths,  Alci- 
biade," and  he  ran  up-stairs  to  collect  the  women. 

Royston  escorted  his  amazed  minister  to  horse. 
"You  had  best  ride  with  us,  parson,"  said  he.  "They 
would  doubtless  like  to  see  you  again,  but  one  must 
be  selfish  at  times."  But  the  minister  was  dazed  to 
dumbness. 

With  him  mounted  on  one  of  the  led  horses,  with 
his  daughter  up  behind  Colonel  Stow,  they  rode 
away.  The  loungers  of  the  inn  yard  showed  some 
timorous  ill  will,  my  Lady  Lepe  no  timorous  disgust 
at  the  turn  of  affairs,  but  neither  affected  the  tran- 
quillity of  Colonel  Stow.  They  had  drawn  clear  of 
the  village  when  the  minister  recovered  speech. 
"Sir,"  says  he  to  Royston,  "I  deemed  you  a  man  of 
Belial,  and  by  the  grace  of  God  you  have  wrought 
me  a  great  deliverance.   Pray,  who  are  you  ?" 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  helped  us  to  find  out,"  said 
Colonel  Royston. 


CHAPTER    THREE 

THE   INSPIRATION    OF   COLONEL   STOW 

COLONEL  STOW  saw  a  full  troop  more  of 
Goring's  green  horsemen  coming  down  on  the 
village  from  Thame,  and  quickened  his  pace. 

"You  are  well  out  of  that  parish,  parson,"  quoth 
Colonel  Royston,  "and  it  will  be  some  while  before 
you  are  in  it  again." 

The  minister  plainly  cared  nothing  for  that,  noth- 
ing for  the  home  he  could  not  save.  Never  a  man 
grieved  less  for  worldly  ruin.  There  was  a  wild  joy 
in  his  eyes.  He  was  throbbing  with  some  glad  spir- 
itual orgasm.  After  a  while  he  lifted  up  his  voice 
and  made  a  joyful  noise.  At  once  Colonel  Royston 
regretted  his  salvation,  and  my  Lady  Lepe  snorted 
at  him.  But  the  minister  saw  nothing,  heard  noth- 
ing in  this  world  but  himself. 

Had  not  the  Lord  been  on  our  side 

May  Israel  now  say ; 
Had  not  the  Lord  been  on  our  side 

When  men  rose  us  to  slay ; 
They  had  us  swallowed  quick  when  as 

Their  wrath  'gainst  us  did  flame; 
Waters  had  covered  us;  our  soul 

Had  sunk  beneath  the  stream. 
24 


THE  INSPIRATION  OF  COLONEJL  STOW  25 

And  many  more  verses  came  before  he  broke  off 
with  the  jerk  of  his  beginning  and,  "Sir,"  he  cried, 
"the  hand  of  the  Lord  is  in  this.  The  Lord  will  not 
suffer  me  to  dwell  in  peace  lest  I  wax  fat  He  hath 
appointed  me  my  portion  otherwhere.  I  will  go  ride 
with  the  host  and  minister  unto  them  till  they  that 
persecuted  the  saints  be  cast  down  and  this  poor 
land's  iniquity  purged  away. 

'He  that  In  Heaven  sits  shall  laugh ; 

The  Lord  shall  scorn  them  all. 
Then  shall  He  speak  to  them  in  wrath, 

In  rage  He  vex  them  shall.'  " 

My  Lady  Lepe  made  a  noise  that  resembled  a  pro- 
fane oath.  Then,  observJhg  Colonel  Royston  moved 
to  gentle  mirth  and  the  minister's  keen  eyes  set  upon 
her,  she  blushed  notably. 

"Father," — from  behind  Colonel  Stow  came  a  pit- 
iful voice, — "father,  shall  we  not  win  home  again?" 

"Nay,  the  Philistines  are  upon  us.  We  are  cast 
out.  We  are  wanderers  upon  the  earth.  Let  God's 
glory  be  magnified  thereby."  I  can  conceive  that 
Colonel  Royston  admired  the  man's  contempt  of  all 
ease.    For  himself  was  not  made  like  that. 

"It  is  hard,"  the  girl  murmured. 

"Blessed  are  they  that  are  persecuted  for  right- 
eousness' sake.  Let  us  give  thanks  that  we  are  ac- 
counted worthy  to  suffer.  Yet  my  heart  is  woe  for 
my  poor  sheep  in  Chinnor  left  without  a  shepherd." 


26  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"They  might  have  come  to  aid  us,"  the  girl  com- 
plained. 

"You  had  perhaps  sung  to  them,"  quoth  my  Lady 
Lepe  sourly. 

Again  she  drew  the  minister's  eyes,  but  met  them 
now  with  a  haughty  contempt.  He  turned  in  dignity 
to  Royston.  "Sir,  I  am  John  Normandy,  a  poor 
servant  of  God  and  preacher  of  the  Word.  In  whose 
company  am  I  ?" 

"Myself  am  George  Royston,  who  serve  no  one 
but  myself.  My  friend  is  Colonel  Stow,  who  serves 
all  men  better  than  they  deserve.  And  this  is  my 
Lady  Lepe,  who  serves  her  husband  by  her  absence." 

It  was  my  Lady  Lepe  who  consumed  the  minis- 
ter's attention.  With  his  deep  keen  eyes  on  her — 
and  indeed  she  rode  ill — "Pray,  whither  are  you 
bound?"  he  asked. 

Colonel  Stow  answered  for  her:  "We  make  for 
Risborough,  and  thence  Stoke  Mandeville." 

That  second  name  was  news  for  my  Lady  Lepe, 
too.  It  seemed  to  Royston  that  both  she  and  the 
minister  were  moved  by  it.  The  minister  turned  to 
Royston.  "Prithee,  a  word  apart,"  and  Royston's 
demure  mirth  growing  more  determined,  he  spurred 
on  ahead  with  him.  Colonel  Royston  foreboded 
events,  and  events  to  him  v/ere  all  amusing.  "I 
would  be  plain  with  you,"  says  the  minister,  out  of 
earshot  of  the  rest.  "From  your  service  to  me  I 
judge  you  children  of  light.  You  have  surely  no 
kindness  for  malignants?" 


THE  INSPIRATION  OF  COLONEL  STOW  27 

Colonel  Royston  felt  a  confidence  impending.  He 
made  himself  smooth.  "Sir,"  says  he,  "inquire  of 
the  gentlemen  in  the  cellar." 

"It  was  a  godly  deed,"  said  the  minister  naively. 
"Sir,  I  doubt  not  your  honesty.  Prithee,  how  came 
this  woman  of  your  company  ?  Know  you  aught  of 
her?" 

Colonel  Royston  looked  under  his  eyelashes.  But 
his  tone  was  of  pure  virtue :  "When  a  woman  asks 
protection  of  man  through  a  disturbed  country,  what 
man  can  deny  her?" 

"Hark  in  your  ear!"  the  minister  came  close. 
"What  surety  have  you  that  she  be  .a  woman?" 

Colonel  Royston,  who  had  a  reasonable  confidence 
that  she  was  not,  exhibited  all  decent  distress.  "You 
alarm  me.  You  appal  me.  But  this  is  surely  a  jest. 
Sir,  it  does  not  become  your  office." 

The  minister  was  gratified.  "Sir,  you  are  a  man 
of  conscience.  Believe  me,  I  jest  not.  What  men 
dare  do  men  must  reprove." 

"It  is  indeed  a  grateful  task  and  savory,"  Royston 
agreed  with  unction. 

"Know  then,  sir,  there  is  at  Stoke  Mandeville  a 
Moabitish  woman  men  call  Lucinda  Weston."  The 
minister,  consumed  with  righteousness,  did  not  mark 
the  shift  of  Colonel  Royston's  eyes.  "  'Tis  well 
known  that  she  hath  been  commonly  visited  from 
Oxford  by  a  malignant  who  comes  in  the  clothes  of 
a  woman  that  he  may  be  safe  from  the  godly  armies 
at  Aylesbury  and  Wycombe.     I  do  notify  you,  sir,  I 


28  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

suspicion  that  you  have  this  sinner  in  your  com- 
pany." 

Colonel  Royston  was  perhaps  as  shocked  as  he 
seemed.  "And  this  Mistress  Lucinda  Weston,"  says 
he  gravely,  "what  may  be  her  relation  with  the  gen- 
tleman ?" 

"Sir,"  quoth  the  minister  severely,  "let  us  pray  to 
be  preserved  from  the  imagination  of  ill." 

"By  all  means,"  Colonel  Royston  agreed,  "but  life 
will  become  dull." 

"  'Tis  said  they  are  betrothed,"  said  the  minister 
with  a  sigh. 

"This  innocence  disheartens." 

"Sir,  I  opine  no  good  thing  of  a  man  thus  un- 
seemly disguised."  The  minister  cleared  his  throat 
for  a  sermon. 

Colonel  Royston  intervened  in  a  hurry.  "Yet 
many  men  would  be  harmless  women,"  quoth  he. 
"And  some  wearing  women  comfortable  men.  'Tis 
sorrow  one  can  not  change  the  sex  with  the  breeches. 
If  husband  could  be  wife,,  wife  husband  by  turns, 
how  would  conjugal  felicities  be  multiplied."  Then, 
seeing  that  the  imminent  sermon  was  fairly  over- 
whelmed, he  broke  off.  "But  I  meddle  with  the 
creation.  I  go  astray.  Pray,  sir,  where  are  you 
going?" 

The  minister  plainly  found  the  agility  of  Colonel 
Royston's  mind  distressful.  He  breathed  heavily. 
"Sir,"  says  he,  "I  have  it  in  mind  to  go  to  Aylesbury. 
I  have  a  friendship  from  of  old  with  godly  Master 


THE  INSPIRATION  OF  COLONEL  STOW  29 

Skippon,  the  sergeant  major  general,  and  will  pray 
his  aid  in  my  mission  to  be  one  of  them  that  minister 
to  the  host  Yea,  and  moreover,  I  will  bear  them 
tidings  of  this  malignant  that  rides  in  a  woman's 
coats." 

There  was  something  of  admiration  in  Colonel 
Royston's  face  as  he  surveyed  the  minister.  He  ever 
loved  men  who  made  him  busy.  "Sir,"  says  he, 
"you  are  a  refreshment.  I  am  vastly  the  better  of 
you  already.  You  make  me  rejoice  in  the  construc- 
tion of  life." 

Whereat  the  minister  was  moved  to  spiritual  song: 

Praise  ye  the  Lord ;  for  it  is  good 

Praise  to  our  Lord  to  sing, 
For  it  is  pleasant;  and  to  praise 

It  is  a  comely  thing. 

The  sunlight  flashed  and  changed  about  them. 
Fleets  of  white  cloud  were  speeding  across  the  blue, 
mingling  now,  now  parting  and  driving  on  to  the 
mellow  lucid  eastern  horizon.  Meadows  wrought 
with  the  full  gleam  of  the  cowslips  shone  pale  gold. 
Beneath  the  white  flame  that  clothed  the  thornbrake 
the  banks  were  all  blue  with  speedwell.  From  the 
splendor  of  the  hawthorn,  from  the  wide,  bare 
branches  of  the  swaying  oak  and  high  in  the  utter 
glory  of  the  sunlight  rose  the  music  of  the  great  har- 
mony of  springtime.  All  the  live  warm  air  rang 
with  joy. 


30  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Behind  Colonel  Stow's  back  a  small  voice  spake : 
"Sir,  are  you  a  soldier?" 

"At  least  I  am  nothing  else,"  said  Colonel  Stow, 
and  turned  in  the  saddle  to  smile  at  her.  I  can  not 
find  that  she  was  beautiful  beyond  the  ordinary. 
Colonel  Royston  has  called  her  a  wholesome  piece  of 
red  and  white.  But  I  think  he  never  loved  her.  She 
was  small,  yet  of  a  gracious  fullness  of  form.  There 
was  too  much  of  her  hair  to  be  neatly  ordered,  and 
with  the  light  through  it  it  glistened  like  gold. 
Colonel  Stow  saw  a  grave  honesty  in  her  gray  eyes. 
Purity  encompassed  her,  seemed  indeed  her  very 
self,  yet  you  would  not  doubt  her  in  fullness  a 
woman. 

"Are  you  upon  the  Lord's  side?"  she  said  simply. 

"I  shall  know  when  I  die,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"Ah,  but  now — now  is  the  accepted  time!"  she 
cried,  and  then  blushed  and  was  shy.  "Pray,  sir, 
what  are  you  ?    Of  what  faith  ?" 

"I  am  a  great  man  in  the  making,"  quoth  Colonel 
Stow. 

The  honest  eyes  grew  in  na'ive  wonder  and  fear  of 
evil.    "In  what  way  great,  sir?" 

Colonel  Stow  was  ready  enough  to  explain. 
"Madame,  what  a  man  can  do,  I  can  do  better.  What 
a  man  fears,  I  fear  not.  When  a  man  despairs,  I  am 
full  of  heart    And  with  a  lost  cause  I  conquer." 

"Child,"  says  my  Lady  Lepe,  "we  have  mistook 
the  gentleman,  who  is  surely  God." 

But  the  round  face  against  Colonel  Stow's  shoul- 


THE  INSPIRATION  OF  COLONEL  STOW  31 

der  was  exceeding  grave,  "Sir,  are  you  with  us  or 
against  us  ?"  she  said  severely. 

"I  am  both.  I  am  neither,"  said  Colonel  Stow 
blandly.     "And  thus  secure  entertainment." 

Joan  Normandy  gave  a  little  gasp  of  horror. 
"Then  do  you  not  believe  anything?"  she  cried, 
shrinking  as  far  as  she  could  in  safety  from  those 
broad  infidel  shoulders. 

Colonel  Stow  turned  in  the  saddle  smiling.  "I  be- 
lieve that  I  can  be  great,  and  I  take  the  part  that 
helps  me  to  greatness.  If  I  choose  the  King,  I  will 
believe  desperately  in  his  cause.  Now  I  believe  in 
it  as  little  as  you." 

"Then — then" —  she  struggled  with  this  strange, 
horrible  scheme  of  life — "then  what  is'tyou  live  for? 
Why  do  you  seek  to  be  great  ?  Have  you  no  faith  to 
guide  you  at  all  ?" 

"Ay,  madame,  the  faith  and  worship  of  a  most 
admirable  lady,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  with  kindling 
eye. 

"But  sure,  sir,  she  would  have  you  not  great,  but 
righteous  and  true,"  the  girl  cried. 

Colonel  Stow  looked  at  her  with  wise,  mirthful 
eyes.    "Is  that  a  woman's  way,  mistress?"  said  he. 

"Ay,  sir,  indeed.  'Tis  the  great,  great  pride  of  a 
woman  to  help  a  man  to  righteousness." 

My  Lady  Lepe  surveyed  the  girl  with  some  con- 
tempt. "Some  man  is  to  have  a  melancholy  life,  I 
see,"  quoth  she,  and  the  girl  blushed  painfully. 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.     The  wars  had  educated 


32  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

him.  "The  best  of  us  dislike  redeemers,  child,"  said 
he,  "even  in  petticoats.  You  bear  too  hard  on  the 
world.  No  cause  is  all  of  God,  none  all  of  the  devil. 
If  I  fight  for  this  or  that  with  equal  heart,  I  know 
myself  no  villain.  What  matters  to  the  world  is  that 
the  men  who  can  should  rule  and  school  the  rest  to 
comfortable  life.  I  am  born  for  that.  I  grip  at 
place  and  wide  power  to  have  men  the  happier  for 
me.  Men  must  be  mastered,  and  I  can  do  it — to 
mine  honor,  which  is  the  honor  of  my  lady." 

"Does  she  know  you  talk  so?"  said  the  girl  in  a 
low  voice  of  awe. 

"There  is  nothing  in  my  thought  for  which  she 
need  feel  shame,  madame.  It  was  the  fashion  once 
for  a  soldier  to  wear  his  lady's  riband  upon  his 
morion.  I  bear  my  lady's  colors  in  my  soul,  and  live 
by  her  spirit.  She  hath  been  my  inspiration  since  I 
had  body  or  mind  to  go  my  own  way.  She  hath 
command  of  every  part  of  me.  She  is  very  queen  in 
all  her  being.  She  is  of  a  divine  beauty,  yet  'tis  not 
the  beauty  of  her  that  I  worship.    She — " 

My  Lady  Lepe  yawned  audibly.  "Perhaps,  sir, 
this  might  delight  the  lady  more  than  us.   I  hope  so." 

Colonel  Stow  flushed  like  a  boy.  "Madame,  if 
you  knew  her,  you  would  despise  the  weakness  of  my 
praise.  'Tis  Mistress  Lucinda  Weston  of  Stoke." 
He  spoke  as  who  should  say  "the  Queen  of  Heaven 
is  my  love,"  and  with  shining  dazzled  eyes  looked 
right  on  through  the  sunlight. 

My  Lady  Lepe  was  smitten  with  pallor.     "Is  the 


THE  INSPIRATION  OF  COLONEL  STOW  33 

lady  aware  of  your  devotion?"  she  said,  and  her 
voice  was  strained  and  strange,  so  that  Colonel  Stow 
turned  to  her.  "I — I  have  some  acquaintance  there," 
she  explained  swiftly. 

"I  am  her  sworn  servant  since  she  was  a  child," 
said  Colonel  Stow,  "and  thrice  in  ten  years  of  war  I 
have  snatched  the  time  to  see  her,  and  each  time 
known  her  more  worthy  worship.  But  she  is  known 
to  you,  madame.  Is  she  not  more  noble  far  than  I 
tell  you?" 

"You  can  scarce  expect  a  woman  to  say  so,"  said 
my  Lady  Lepe  sourly. 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

COLONEL   STOW   SEES    HIS   INSPIRATION 

COLONEL  STOW  heard  with  alarm  that  my 
Lady  Lepe  was  bound  for  Stoke  Manor.  "Ma- 
dame," says  he  in  agitation,  "you  spoke  of  a  lady  in 
sore  need.  Is  Mistress  Weston  distressed  or  ill 
bested?" 

"I  said  she  was  in  need  of  me,"  my  Lady  Lepe 
snapped. 

Colonel  Stow  bowed  and  begged  the  honor  of 
being  her  escort.  My  Lady  Lepe,  who  had  no  means 
of  denying,  said  with  an  ill  grace  something  polite. 

Bearing  away  from  the  hills  as  the  sun  sank  upon 
a  troubled  sea  of  gold  and  gray,  they  came  by  heav- 
ier roads  to  the  dark,  blue-green  meadows,  the 
brown  tilth  of  the  vale.  Colonel  Stow  breathed  deep 
the  unforgetable,  grateful  scents  of  home.  There 
was  blood  in  his  cheeks,  and  again  and  aga.in  his  eye 
gleamed  for  a  hedge-row,  a  tree  of  memories. 

All  the  way  Royston  and  his  minister,  checking 
and  checking  again,  dropped  slowly  back  to  them. 
Both  were  concerned  to  see  what  my  Lady  Lepe 
would  do  when  they  came  to  the  dark  files  of  elms 
that  led  off  the  highway  to  Stoke  Manor.    She  made 

34 


HE    SEES    HIS    INSPIRATION  35 

no  mystery.  She  had  no  suspicions,  and  was  in  a 
hurry.  With  a  bow  and  a  "Good  morrow,  sir.  Good 
morrow,  your  reverence,"  she  turned  short  off. 

Colonel  Stow  halted  and  swiftly  set  Joan  Nor- 
mandy down — who  was  surprised,  and  stood  there 
looking  at  him,  like  a  child  alarmed  by  some  adult 
wickedness. 

"You  know  the  homestead,  George,"  he  cried. 
"Commend  these  good  folk  to  my  father.  I  will  be 
with  you  in  an  hour,"  and  he  was  off  after  my  Lady 
Lepe. 

Colonel  Royston,  having  with  grace  assisted  Joan 
Normandy  up  behind  him,  found  her  father  regard- 
ing him  severely.  "Ay,  sir,"  said  he  with  a  shake 
of  the  head,  "your  melancholy  anticipations  have 
been  gratified.  I  congratulate  you  on  your  worst 
suspicions." 

The  minister  frowned.  "Pray,  sir,  why  does  your 
friend  company  the  malignant  ?" 

Colonel  Royston  was  never  prodigal  of  the  truth. 
"Why,  sir,  consider.  He  deems  the  creature  a  lady, 
and  'tis  but  common  courtesy  to  be  her  escort  to  the 
end." 

"Is  he  thus  beguiled?"  the  minister  questioned. 

"I  would  never  trust  the  man  that  can  not  be  de- 
ceived," said  Royston,  who  himself,  I  take  it,  saw 
always  very  clearly. 

Colonel  Stow  and  my  Lady  Lepe,  neither,  I  doubt, 
much  liking  the  other,  made  great  speed  to  the 
Manor;  and  I  wonder  if  Mistress  Lucinda  Weston 


36  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

liked  either  when  they  surprised  her  in  her  garden 
in  an  aged,  faded,  dark  gown.  She  checked  her  walk 
and  stood  like  a  queen,  cold  and  proud,  gazing  at 
them  full. 

"  'Twas  she  alone,"  says  my  Lord  Digby  in  an 
intimate  letter,  "that  converted  me  to  an  admiration 
of  slight  women.  She  was  cleanly,  straight  as  a 
pine,  lithe  as  a  willow  sapling,  yet  with  a  hundred 
graces  of  allure."  She  was  other  than  beautiful,  as 
I  judge.  She  gave  a  man  challenge  by  the  fullness 
of  her  life.  Her  charm  was  in  strength.  She  had 
the  wide,  fearless  eyes  of  a  boy.  The  warm  splen- 
dor of  her  hair,  the  full  lips  near  scarlet,  were  vivid 
of  passionate  will. 

Colonel  Stow,  whose  face  was  very  pale,  whose 
heart  at  wild  work,  bowed  before-  her  to  half  his 
height.  My  Lady  Lepe  sped  to  her  and  caught  her 
breast  to  breast  and  kissed  her.  The  blood  was  flow- 
ing in  Colonel  Stow's  brow  at  that.  But  Mistress 
Weston  freed  herself  from  the  embrace  all  composed 
and  fair  of  cheek.  "Good  morrow,  child,"  says  she. 
"It  is  kind  in  you  to  come."  My  Lady  Lepe,  who 
was  red  and  something  disordered,  circled  her  with 
an  arm  again.  She  permitted,  but  was  more  con- 
cerned in  Colonel  Stow,  who  stood  rooted  to  the 
ground  and  dumb.  "This  is  a  friend  from  of  old," 
she  said,  and  he  saw  that  strange,  wise  smile  of  hers 
that  ever  made  his  heart  check  and  throb.  "It  was 
Major  Stow  last.     What  now?     Colonel,  or  Baron 


HE    SEES    HIS    INSPIRATION  37 

of  the  Empire,  or  Knight  of  the  Fleece?"  and  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

Colonel  Stow  went  upon  one  knee  to  kiss  it,  and 
she  leaned  back  in  my  Lady  Lepe's  arm  at  ease. 
"Colonel  Stow,  madame,"  says  he,  "and  always  your 
most  true  and  humble  servant." 

"Tell  him  how  he  has  served  you  in  bringing  you 
me,  Lucinda,"  quoth  my  Lady  Lepe,  and  appeared 
to  find  the  position  humorous. 

"  'Tis  you  should  reward  him  for  that,  child," 
said  Lucinda  demurely,  and  made  herself  more  com- 
fort in  my  Lady  Lepe's  arm. 

My  Lady  Lepe  royally  presented  Colonel  Stow 
with  her  hand,  who  kissed  it  in  turn.  "I  have  been 
honored  by  my  task,  madame,"  says  he. 

"I  wonder,"  says  my  Lady  Lepe  in  soft  mirth. 

Colonel  Stow,  who  saw  nothing  mirthful,  turned 
to  Lucinda.  "But  Mistress  Weston,  madame  has 
told  me  that  you  are  in  need.  If  I  can  avail,  I  am 
utterly  at  your  command." 

"Nay,"  quoth  my  Lady  Lepe,  "Lucinda  needs 
only  me,"  and  therewith  embraced  her  closer.  "Is't 
not  so,  child?"  They  looked  in  each  other's  eyes 
and  laughed.  Then  my  Lady  Lepe  smiled  upon 
Colonel  Stow. 

Colonel  Stow  bowed.  "It  is  well,  madame.  I  will 
pray  leave  to  wait  on  you  again." 

"Sir,  you  are  always  pleasing,"  quoth  Lucinda, 
and  Colonel  Stow  went  away  mighty  well  content. 

Guarded  from  the  road.  by.  a.  great  hedge  of  yew 


38  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

and  a  noble  orchard,  close  the  homestead  of  Broad- 
fields  stood.  Its  red  walls  and  roof  were  mellowing 
with  lichen,  and  in  the  last  sunlight  it  glowed  like  a 
house  of  jewels  behind  the  white  glory  of  the  blos- 
soming trees.  Across  the  gate  a  man  of  some  years 
was  leaning.  Hair  and  small  beard  had  come  near 
white,  but  his  cheeks  were  like  a  russet  apple,  and 
his  eyes  wide  and  clear  and  bright.  He  held  up  his 
hand  to  his  son,  and  Colonel  Stow  swung  to  the 
ground,  and  with  arms  linked,  silent,  they  walked  to 
the  house.  Colonel  Royston,  boots  and  buff  coat  laid 
aside,  lounged  with  a  long  pipe  in  the  doorway  and 
surveyed  them  benignly. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  father,  as  one  who  recalls 
himself  from  the  extravagance  of  emotion.  .  .  . 
"And  so  you  have  brought  a  maid  home  with  you  at 
last,  Jerry?"  and  the  brown  cheeks  wrinkled  hu- 
morously. 

"A  maid  in  love  with  righteousness,  so  doomed  to 
die  a  maid.    Have  you  heard  her  story,  sir  ?" 

"Ay.  God  save  all  children,  for  I  think  all  par- 
ents be  mad.  This  fellow  has  not  been  in  enough 
turmoil  to-day,  but  is  off  to  the  army  at  Aylesbury, 
and  hath  left  her  here  to  weep  by  herself  a  night.  A 
simple,  clean  maid,  too,  Jerry,"  says  the  artless 
father. 

"Why,  sir,  simple  more  than  enough — and  clean 
more  than  enough,  too." 

"Well,  you  ever  took  more  pepper  to  your  meat 
than  L     Come  in,  lad,  and  we'll  to  supper  before 


HE    SEES    HIS    INSPIRATION  39 

George  Royston  here  has  spoiled  his  stomach  with  a 
pipe.  Man  is  not  pig,  say  I,  that  he  should  be  better 
smoked." 

"Why,  sir,  I  am  much  like  bacon,"  said  Royston. 
"The  friend  of  man,  but  no  love  of  the  ladies." 

"Proper  enough  for  a  married  man,  but  dull  life 
for  a  bachelor.  Well,  and  what  will  you  have  for  a 
whet  ?  Pickled  eels,  or  something  of  a  smoked  neat's 
tongue,  or  a  taste  of  the  new  Dutch  salad?" 

They  were  in  the  hall  of  the  homestead,  a  broad, 
low  room,  all  dark  oak,  with  candles  bright  in  pewter 
sconces,  and  a  fragrant  pine  log  red  and  gray  on  the 
hearth.  Soon  they  made  a  little  party  at  the  head  of 
the  long  table,  with  serving  men  and  maids  heartily 
busy  below  the  salt.  Joan  Normandy,  on  Mr.  Stow's 
right  hand,  too  shy  to  speak,  too  shy  to  see  anything 
but  her  platter,  was  plied  in  vain  with  many  good 
things,  till,  when  she  would  taste  neither  turkey  pie 
nor  a  porridge  of  veal  and  plums,  the  men  despaired 
and  let  her  be,  respecting  grief  so  potent.  They  were 
dallying  with  the  apples  and  cheese  and  strong  ale, 
and  the  serving  folk  all  off  to  bed,  and  a  pipkin  of 
sack-posset  hissing  comfortably  upon  the  hearth,  be- 
fore Mr.  Stow  had  a  mind  to  speak  of  what  he  felt. 
Royston  watched  him  look  at  his  son,  and  knew  a 
strange  pang  of  loneliness.  "And  have  you  had  your 
fill  of  war  now,  Jerry  ?"  says  he. 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "I  am  back  for  a  bigger 
meal  of  it,  sir.  You  have  a  war  here  that  gives  one 
appetite." 


40  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"It  gives  me  the  stomach-ache,"  said  his  father. 
"Because  a  king  wants  to  be  God,  and  Parliament 
men  want  to  .be  kings,  honest  lads  that  might  be 
raising  good  wheat  and  good  children  go  goring 
one  another  like  mad  cattle — pah!  Well,  well! 
There  was  something  left  out  of  me  that  is  in  you 
and  your  brother.  I  want  nothing  that  I  would 
make  men  die  for." 

"David,  sir?"  cried  Colonel  Stow.  "Is  he  turned 
soldier?" 

"I'gad,  he  is  turned  saint,  too,  which  is  more 
trouble.  He  hates  a  bishop  as  I  do  the  fly  on  the 
turnips,  and  conceives  he'll  make  an  end  of  them, 
which  I  do  not.  He  is  the  major  of  a  sweet  company 
that  pray  like  old  women  and  fight  like  butchers, 
with  a  pragmatical  preaching  lawyer  Ireton  to  their 
colonel.  Oons,  Jerry,  I  hope  you  are  no  saint,  at 
least.  It  balks  a  man  with  his  dinner."  Then  sud- 
denly the  good  man  remembered  the  girl  at  his  side. 
"Nay,  my  dear,  I  mean  naught  against  you  or  your 
worthy  father.  'Tis  a  parson's  trade  to  be  precise 
and  godly,  and  we  like  him  the  better.  And  a  woman 
Is  the  comelier  for  standing  above  a  man.  You  are 
as  sweet  as  a  nosegay  at  table.  But  a  man  likes  some 
ease  for  himself." 

She  blushed ;  she  was  daintily  shy,  trying  to  find 
words.  "Nay,  please,  oh,  please,  do  not  talk  of  me. 
But  sure,  sir,  'tis  a  man's  duty  and  great  joy  to  live 
and  die  for  the  glory  of  God." 

"Ay,  my  dear,  and  I  know  no  better  way  of  it  than 


HE    SEES    HIS    INSPIRATION  41 

to  grow  good  wheat  and  good  children  for  God's 
world." 

"Ah,  but  there  is  faith,"  the  girl  cried,  her  eyes 
shining.  "We  are  naught  without  that.  The  true 
faith — we  must  hold  it  and  preach  it  in  word  and 
deed,  if  by  any  means  we  can  save  people." 

"Eh,  little  maid,  little  maid,  I  can  never  be  so  sure 
my  neighbor  is  lost.  If  he  does  fairly  I'll  not  quar- 
rel with  his  faith,  or  bully  him  into  mine,  or  kill  him 
to  save  my  soul.  Well,  well.  I  am  too  easy  for  the 
times,  I  think — like  cider  of  a  frosty  day.  If  you 
like  strong  wine,  here  is  Jerry,  who  would  set  all  the 
world  by  the  ears  if  he  could  be  general  of  half. 
What,  lad,  you  would  still  be  great  or  nothing,  eh?" 

"The  man  who  is  not  great  is  nothing,"  said 
Colonel  Stow. 

"Now,  I  think  something  of  the  little  man  who 
can  hoe  a  clean  row,"  said  his  father.  "Eh,  well, 
it  is  good  to  have  fire  in  your  belly,  and  good,  too,  to 
have  burned  it  out.  You  will  be  blazing  some  while 
yet,  Jerry."  He  cocked  a  wise  eye  at  his  son.  "Still 
for  Mistress  Weston  ?" 

"Till  the  end  of  time,  sir."  At  the  assurance  his 
father  was  swiftly  so  melancholy  that  Colonel  Stow 
was  alarmed.    "Pray,  sir,  what  ails  her?"  he  cried. 

His  father  faltered.  "Why,  no  ill  for  herself,  but 
ill  for  you,  lad.  She  is  betrothed  to  a  young  gentle- 
man out  of  Berkshire.  One  Gilbert  Bourne,  a  cap- 
tain of  the  King's.  He  comes  to  her  dressed  in  a 
woman's  coats  to  cheat  the  Puritan  patrolmen.    And 


42  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Jerry,  lad,  I  doubt  not  it  is  he  you  brought  her  to- 
day." 

The  wound  was  kindly  given  in  one  clean  stroke. 
Colonel  Stow  leaned  back  and  shaded  his  eyes  with 
his  hand.  Then  Joan  Normandy,  though  indeed  it 
could  be  no  blame  of  hers,  blushed  painfully,  and 
Mr.  Stow,  looking  anywhere  but  at  his  son,  saw  that 
her  brown  hands  were  clenched  till  the  knuckles 
glistened  white.  In  a  moment  she  rose,  made  her 
curtsy  and  fled  away.  Colonel  Stow  did  not  see, 
did  not  hear  Royston  making  swift,  facile  talk  of  the 
spring  sowing.  He  was  groping  breathless  in  a 
world  from  which  the  light  and  air  of  hope  had  been 
torn  away.  He  did  not  perceive  that  he  had  been 
wronged.  That  the  false  my  Lady  Lepe  had  dealt 
with  him  unhandsomely;  that  Lucinda  had  borne 
part  in  an  ignoble  mockery  of  him — these  matters 
passed  him  by.  The  impulse  of  his  life  was  sud- 
denly dead.    He  was  afraid.    .    .    . 

The  rhythmic  clatter  of  ordered  horsemen  broke 
upon  him.  He  started  up  pallid.  "Who  goes?"  he 
cried  fiercely.  Royston  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  The 
sound  came  nearer  and  passed,  while  the  two  sol- 
diers listened  keenly.  "A  troop.  What  does  it 
mean?"  said  Colonel  Stow  more  calmly. 

"It  means  that  our  parson  knew  the  man  under  the 
petticoats,"  said  Colonel  Royston.  "And  my  lady 
will  be  adorning  a  Puritan  prison  without  them." 
The  vision  gave  him  plain  consolation. 

Colonel  Stow  strode  out. 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

MY  LADY  LEPE  TAKES  OFF  HER  PETTICOATS 

MY  LADY  WESTON  had  the  misfortune  to 
wed  a  man  whom  she  did  not  amuse.  She  was 
the  mother  of  a  daughter  with  more  brains  than  her- 
self. You  would  not  expect  her  to  find  life  pleasant 
After  Sir  Godfrey's  death  she  was  doubtless  more  at 
ease,  but  she  had  made  the  mistake  of  loving  him. 
Her  daughter  was  not  unkind,  but  plainly  had  no 
need  of  her.  My  Lady  Weston,  in  fact,  had  not 
enough  to  give  for  any  one  to  need  her.  Her  private 
tragedy  was  that  she  knew  it. 

The  happiest  days  of  all  her  life  were  those  in 
which  Gilbert  Bourne  trusted  her  with  the  tale  of 
his  first  shy  hopes  of  her  daughter.  It  was  such  a 
one  as  Gilbert  Bourne,  joyous  with  a  thousand  frank 
enthusiasms,  for  whom  in  truth  her  nature  was 
made,  and,  listening  to  his  shy,  eager  confidence,  she 
could  dream  her  youth  back,  and  a  glad  wooing,  and 
happiness  sure.  But  when  he  grew  bolder  and  Lu- 
cinda  kind,  he  wanted  no  more  of  her  mother.  My 
Lady  Weston  had  again  to  efface  herself.  That  was 
her  trade. 

Lucinda  was  not  troubled  by  her  mother  as  she  sat 
43 


44  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

in  the  white  room  of  the  Manor  by  Gilbert  Bourne. 
He  wore  still  his  somber  petticoats  of  the  road,  but 
she  was  resplendent.  An  apple-green  gown  clung 
close  about  her,  with  embroidery  of  silver  on  her 
bosom,  and  the  full  light  fell — always  she  loved 
light — through  her  rich  hair  and  came  with  mellow 
ray  to  caress  her  slender  neck  and  shoulder.  Gilbert 
Bourne  adored,  and  she  smiled. 

"Heaven !  Do  you  know  how  you  fire  a  man  ?"  he 
cried. 

Her  smile  faded  a  little.  He  saw  a  strange  de- 
fiant gleam  in  her  eyes.  "Are  you  afraid  of  flame? 
I  have  something  to  give  the  man  who  fires  my 
heart." 

He  caught  her  closer.  "Lucinda!  You!  Such  a 
gift  as  no  man  ever  enjoyed  yet.  You  are  the  very 
wild  strength  of  life." 

She  laughed  softly,  looking  out  at  the  night.  "I 
would  take  more  than  I  give,"  she  said. 

"That  can  not  be.  All  of  a  man,  his  soul  to  fight 
with  yours  the  world  through,  to  worship  you  and 
guard  and  serve  you,  oh,  I  give  you  all,  all.  But  'tis 
nothing  for  what  you  give  in  love — all  the  fierce  full 
glory  and  joy.  Lucinda!"  He  crushed  her  hands 
in  his,  his  breath  was  on  her  cheek. 

She  turned  her  head.  "Teach  me  your  hunger," 
she  breathed,  her  lips  close  to  his. 

Then  he  laughed  as  if  all  were  won.  "Dear,  you 
were  made  for  delight.  You  shall  sound  every  note 
of  love,  and  throb  to  the  music.     I'll  wake — " 


LADY    LEPE    DISCARDS    PETTICOATS  45 

Out  of  the  black  void  beyond  the  window  a  gentle- 
man in  buff  rose  to  the  light,  a  swart  Puritan  trooper. 
A  moment  he  gazed  helpless.  The  duplication  of 
petticoats  in  this  wooing  plainly  confused  him.  Then 
he  grabbed  the  shoulder  of  each.  "In  the  name  of 
Adam,  which  is  the  man  of  you  ?"  he  roared. 

I  wonder  if  Lucinda  ever  fully  forgave  her  lover 
that  ridiculous  moment.  She  repulsed  him  in  a 
spasm  of  passion  that  sent  him  into  the  Puritan's 
arms  and  herself  out  of  them.  So  that  a  dozen  morp 
righteous  warriors,  breaking  into  the  room,  saw  their 
comrade  embracing  one  woman  with  a  violent  fer- 
vor, while  another  regarded  him  in  crimson,  palpi- 
tating horror.  Their  natural  moral  emotions  held 
them  a  moment  gaping.  "Oh,  fools,"  groaned  the 
first  comer,  for  Gilbert  Bourne  was  hammering 
doughtily  at  his  face,  "this  is  the  man.  Ugh !  And 
a  man  of  wrath.  Bind  him  with  strong  cords." 
Then  they  encompassed  Gilbert  Bourne  and  over- 
whelmed him,  bidding  him  earnestly  not  to  kick 
against  the  pricks.  Doing  so  with  violence,  he  was 
borne  out. 

Then  Lucinda,  angry  with  him  and  the  Puritans 
and  herself,  and  all  the  scheme  of  things,  cried  out: 
"It  is  a  foul,  cowardly  outrage!"  The  one  trooper 
who  was  left  buried  his  face  in  a  kerchief,  not  for 
emotion,  but  because  Gilbert  Bourne  had  set  his  nose 
bleeding  mightily.  "Oh,  that  I  were  a  man!"  she 
cried,  stamping  her  foot.  "I  would  swinge  you  for 
it!  But  if  I  were  a  man  you  had  not  dared!" 


46  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Woman,  for  what  I  know,  you  are,"  said  the 
trooper  in  a  muffled  voice.  "This  is  a  confusing 
household  to  a  godly  mind." 

She  cried  out  in  wordless  passionate  disgust.  He 
strode  solemnly  to  the  door,  holding  his  nose. 
"Where  are  you  going?"  she  cried.  "What  is  your 
work?    What  would  you  do?" 

"Woman,"  he  replied  with  much  dignity,  "I  would 
put  cold  iron  to  my  back."  I  can  be  sorry  for  Lu- 
cinda. 

For  indeed  she  got  no  more  of  those  righteous 
troopers  than  that.  Cornet  Jehoiada  Tompkins  had 
been  sent  to  capture  a  man  of  Belial  in  petticoats, 
and,  having  done  it,  was  in  haste  to  be  gone.  Gilbert 
Bourne,  much  disordered,  was  straitly  bound  on  his 
own  horse,  and  they  bore  him  off  to  Puritan  justice 
at  Aylesbury. 

It  is  now  well  that  you  should  come  to  the  loft 
where  upon  fragrant  hay  Alcibiade  and  Matthieu- 
Marc  were  snoring.  Matthieu-Marc  felt  the  end  of 
a  riding-whip  separating  his  ribs.  He  rolled  over, 
being  ticklish,  and  saw  level  with  him  on  the  ladder 
a  lantern  and  the  face  of  Colonel  Stow,  which  last 
said :    "Quiet.    Saddle,"  and  vanished. 

Matthieu-Marc  kicked  Alcibiade,  who,  unawake, 
kicked  feebly  back.  "Even  asleep  you  are  not  a 
Christian,"  said  Matthieu-Marc  sadly.  "Infidel!"  he 
took  Alcibiade  by  the  ear.     "Infidel,  arise!" 

Alcibiade  sat   up.      He   }'awned   cavernously   on 


LADY    LEPE    DISCARDS    PETTICOATS  47 

Matthieu-Marc.  "I  shall  never  be  ready  for  the 
resurrection,"  said  he. 

"I  understand  your  fears  of  it,"  said  Matthieu- 
Marc,  and,  having  by  this  time  got  his  boots  on,  he 
vanished  down  the  ladder,  whither,  groaning  but 
swiftly,  Alcibiade  followed. 

In  the  stable  below,  Royston  was  at  Colonel  Stow's 
elbow.  "What  is  the  campaign,  Jerry?"  said  he  in  a 
low  voice. 

"If  the  gentleman  be  taken,  I  must  set  him  free," 
quoth  Colonel  Stow,  busy  with  his  saddle. 

Colonel  Royston  confesses  that  he  did  not  see  the 
need.  To  him  the  issue  of  the  affair  appeared  hu- 
morously just.  "Why,  Jerry,"  says  he,  "it  was  a 
scullion's  trick  the  lad  played  you." 

"It  belongs  to  me  to  save  him,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

Colonel  Royston  turned  to  his  own  horse.  Chiv- 
alry, he  reflected,  is  the  most  dangerous  engine 
against  women — a  sex  ever  unchivalrous.  If  Jerry 
would  outshine  this  Gilbert  Bourne  and  dazzle  his 
Lucinda,  no  better  way  than  to  play  Quixote.  Thus 
Colonel  Royston,  who  did  not  suspect  his  friend  of  a 
like  profundity^  and  therefore  admired  him. 

Soon  they  were  riding  through  the  stormy  dark, 
Alcibiade  and  Matthieu-Marc  bearing  each  a  shoul- 
der-load of  trace  rope.  Colonel  Stow  might  be 
Quixote  at  heart,  but  he  had  another  man's  head  and 
ten  years'  mingled  campaigning  to  help  it.  Nor  to 
him  nor  to  Royston  did  the  aff^air  loom  arduous. 
They  knew  themselves  in  such  matters.     They  rode 


48  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

to  the  double  rank  of  elms  by  the  road  to  the  Manor, 
halted  a  while  to  listen^  and  went  on  some  way. 
Then  at  a  word  Matthieu-Marc  slipped  to  the 
ground  and  wove  a  thick  tangle  of  rope  across  the 
road  from  tree  to  tree.  He  came  back  and  mounted 
again,  and  held  the  horse  of  Alcibiade,  who  went 
afoot,  crouching.  So  they  waited  there  in  the  black- 
ness while  the  trees  rustled  and  groaned.  It  was  not 
long  till  the  troop  of  Cornet  Tompkins  came  clash- 
ing on.  Cornet  Tompkins  was  in  a  hurry,  and  there- 
by his  first  files  met  the  graver  destruction.  Their 
horses,  crashing  down  in  the  strong  network, 
plunged  madly,  and  upon  them  came  comrade  after 
comrade,  till  half  the  troop  was  lost  in  blind,  roar- 
ing chaos.  Swiftly  the  while  behind  them  Alcibiade 
wove  new  ropes  across  the  way  and  fled,  so  that  when 
the  rearward  men  tried  to  rein  back,  their  horses  in 
turn  were  overthrown,  and  there  was  a  double  dis- 
tracting tumult.  In  the  stormy  dark  none  could  help 
himself  or  another,  nor  see  nor  guess  how  they  were 
beset.  Blindly  they  raved,  and  Colonel  Stow  and 
his  friend,  calm  engineers  of  terror  and  disaster, 
hovered  on  the  verge,  marking  down  my  Lady  Lepe. 
Out  of  the  thud  and  crash  of  the  struggling  horses 
and  the  yells  and  shoutings  of  angry,  hurt,  fright- 
ened men.  Cornet  Jehoiada  Tompkins  was  heard  ex- 
horting scripturally,  his  desire  being  chiefly  to  hew 
Agag  in  pieces. 

But  Agag  they  caught  none,  for  Alcibiade  and 
Matthieu-Marc,  unseen,   unfollowed,  were  already 


LADY    LEPE    DISCARDS    TETTICOATS  49 

neatly  away,  and  Royston  and  Colonel  Stow,  plung- 
ing purposeful  into  the  midst,  had  broken  through, 
with  my  Lady  Lepe  and  her  horse  a  sandwich  be- 
tween them,  before  any  one  knew  them  for  foes. 
Some  bright  mind  marked  the  prisoner  going  in  the 
gloom  and  raised  a  yell,  some  plunged  after,  but 
thereupon  from  all  round  the  compass  came  a  crackle 
of  pistol  shots.  Colonel  Royston,  with  some  small 
aid,  could  ever  be  ubiquitous.  It  sufficed.  The  Pur- 
itans had  no  mind  to  scatter  in  a  circle  of  foes. 

Well  on  the  road  to  Little  Kimble,  Colonel  Stow 
drew  his  rein  and  my  Lady  Lepe's.  "You  will  doubt- 
less go  faster  without  your  petticoats,  sir,"  said  he, 
and  began  to  cut  her  bonds. 

"Zounds,  do  you  tell  me  you  know  what  I  am?" 
cried  Gilbert  Bourne. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  joy  of  your  man- 
hood, sir,"  said  Colonel  Stow  gravely.  Gilbert 
Bourne  muttered  some  oath.  Once  free,  he  tore  off 
his  skirts  and  settled  himself  astride.  "That  is  the 
road  to  Thame,  where  you  should  be  safe,"  said 
Colonel  Stow. 

"I  will  swear  I  am  not  such  a  cur  as  I  seem,"  Gil- 
bert Bourne  cried.    "I'gad,  sir,  I  ask  your  pardon." 

Colonel  Stow  bowed.  "There  is  no  question  of 
pardon,  sir.    I  give  you  good  night." 

Colonel  Royston  is  moved  to  record  that  he  was 
sorry  for  Mr.  Bourne. 

Fetching  a  compass  toward  Aylesbury,  they  came 
comfortably  home  again,  but  were  scarce  in  before 


50  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

there  was  a  rumble  of  horsemen.  Royston  put  out 
the  lights,  Colonel  Stow  shot  the  bolts,  and  they  went 
lightly  to  bed.  So  that  when  three  minutes  after 
there  was  a  monstrous  din  at  the  door,  the  whole 
house  was  patently  asleep. 

It  was  some  while,  and  the  noise  growing  fero- 
cious, before  a  light  was  struck  in  an  upper  room, 
and  the  night-capped  head  of  Colonel  Royston  was 
thrust  into  the  night.  He  yawned  at  it  capaciously 
while  the  Puritan  troopers  bellowed  up  to  him.  "An 
ungodly  lascivious  noise,"  said  he.  "I  think  you  be 
malignants." 

It  was  made  known  to  him  that  they  were  poor 
servants  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts  who  desired  to  know 
if  he  had  any  word  of  a  movement  of  malignants 
there  or  thereby. 

Colonel  Royston  gave  them  in  definite  terms  a  de- 
scription of  the  character  and  a  prophecy  of  the  fate 
of  those  who  troubled  the  sleep  of  the  godly  with 
vain  questionings. 


CHAPTER    SIX 

A   PERSON   OF   IMPORTANCE 

COLONEL  ROYSTON,  walking  a  while  before 
his  breakfast,  beheld  with  a  bland  satisfaction 
the  approach  of  the  minister.  The  minister  was 
something  wan.  Colonel  Royston  joyfully  escorted 
him  within.  There  Mr.  Stow  met  him  with  a  large 
smile  and  the  hope  that  he  had  not  come  to  take  his 
daughter  from  them  so  soon.  "Sir,"  quoth  the  min- 
ister, "I  have  no  home  to  give  her,  for  I  lie  in  the 
camp,  and  in  truth  she  hath  not  where  to  lay  her 
head.  If  of  your  good  will  she  may  shelter  here  a 
while,  myself  being  at  all  her  charges,  I  would  give 
you  much  thanks." 

"If  'tis  your  will,  child,"  Mr.  Stow  turned  to  the 
girl,  "  'tis  heartily  mine."  She  feared  with  a  blush 
she  would  trouble  him.  "No  more  than  the  apple- 
blossom  the  tree.    So  that  is  well." 

"I  am  hungry  to  hear,  sir,"  says  the  innocent 
Colonel  Royston,  as  they  went  to  table,  "how  you 
caught  your  runagate  malignant  in  petticoats." 

The  minister  gathered  solemnity.  "Sir,  I  have 
seen  the  handiwork  of  the  powers  of  darkness  before 
my  eyes.    I  have  beheld  the  miracles  of  that  old  ser- 

51 


52  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

pent  Do  not  doubt,  sir,  that  in  this  dispensation  the 
devil  is  with  power  to  save  his  own." 

"You  explain  to  me  the  survival  of  many  of  my 
friends,"  said  Colonel  Royston.  "Pray,  sir,  did  the 
man  become  woman  to  spite  you  ?" 

"The  creature  was  man  enough,  sir,  and  fought 
like  a  beast  in  petticoats — " 

"I  have  ever  held  that  beasts  should  be  confined  to 
breeches,"  Royston  murmured. 

"But  he  was  overcome,  though  certain  godly 
young  men  of  the  troop  still  bear  marks  of  his  ma- 
lignity. He  was  bound  upon  his  horse,  and  we  set 
off  at  speed  for  Aylesbury.  Behold,  we  had  not 
drawn  clear  of  the  park  when  our  horses  were  caught 
as  in  a  net — both  rearward  and  vanward  at  once, 
mark  you,  which  is  certainly  witchcraft — and  some 
charged  down  upon  us  and  snatched  the  prisoner 
away,  and  when  we  would  have  pursued,  lo,  there 
was  a  ring  of  fire  all  round  us,  as  if  a  great  army. 
Then  Cornet  Tompkins,  who  is  indeed  a  savory 
member,  bade  halt  and  sing  a  psalm.  The  which  done 
(being  Koph  of  the  one  hundred  and  nineteenth, 
a  very  sweet  portion),  all  that  army  of  Satan  was 
passed  away,  and  we  were  enabled  of  grace  to  cut 
loose  the  net  of  many  cords  wherein  we  were  en- 
meshed. Then  some  would  have  it  that  we  had  been 
assaulted  by  a  regiment  of  malignants,  and  Cornet 
Tompkins  bade  us  move  forward  together,  lest  we 
should  be  beset,  and  we  went  seeking  tidings  from 
house  to  house;  yea,  sir,  and  I  grieve  that  we  did 


A    PERSON    OF    IMPORTANCE         53 

break  your  comfortable  rest,  wherefore  you  did 
justly  rebuke  us  in  godly  fashion.  For  it  was  even 
as  I  told  Cornet  Tompkins,  of  malignants  we  could 
gather  tidings  nowhere,  and  it  is  plain  we  were  en- 
trapped of  no  mortal  power,  but  of  that  great  red 
dragon  which  hath  seven  heads  and  ten  horns,  the 
tail  whereof  draws  the  stars  of  heaven  and  casts 
them  upon  earth,  even  as  he  did  put  us  to  confusion 
with  cords  till  we  cried  upon  the  name  of  the  Lord, 
which  is  a  very  present  refuge." 

Mr.  Stow,  in  mute  practical  admiration  of  such  a 
sentence,  passed  him  a  full  tankard  of  beer.  Colonel 
Royston  carved  into  a  boar's  head  with  relish.  "Sir," 
says  he,  "your  exposition  is  gladsome.  Never  before 
have  I  seen  the  devil  in  things  so  clearly,"  and  he 
smiled  upon  Colonel  Stow. 

"It  should  be  a  source  of  pride,  sir,"  says  Colonel 
Stow,  busy  with  smoked  venison,  "that  the  devil  is 
thus  attentive  to  you."  And  Royston  saw  Joan  Nor- 
mandy look  at  him  with  horror. 

"Sir,  lead  me  not  into  the  pit  of  vainglory,"  said 
the  minister.  "I  will  avow  my  heart  is  glad  Sathan- 
as  hath  chosen  me  to  march  against  with  powers. 
Yet  of  a  truth  there  are  those  much  more  worthy  of 
him." 

"Nay,  sir,  'tis  ill  modesty  to  bid  another  go  to  the 
devil  in  your  stead,"  quoth  Colonel  Stow.  "We  must 
needs  deem  you  worthiest  if  he  does."  The  minister 
shook  his  modest  head,  but  Joan  Normandy  gave 
Colonel  Stow  eyes  of  more  and  more  ill  will.   Colonel 


54  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Royston  complains  of  her  somewhere  that  she  had 
wits  in  her  as  well  as  virtue — an  unnatural  wedlock. 

Colonel  Stow  surprised  himself  that  morning  by 
an  insufficiency  of  melancholy.  He  knew,  whenever 
he  dared  let  himself  think,  that  the  loss  of  Lucinda 
tore  from  him  the  spirit  of  life.  Without  a  hope  of 
her  he  had  no  will  to  go  on.  But  his  heart  would 
not  believe  him  defeated.  Behind  all  thought  there 
surged  in  him  a  blind  conviction  that  she  was  his  of 
right.  More  surely  real  than  all  that  reason  could 
give  him  he  felt  inviolable  bonds.  There  was  that  in 
the  past  no  man  could  make  of  none  effect,  no  woman 
betray.  He  had  the  strength  of  dreams.  In  his  first 
manhood,  when  he  lay  upon  the  bosom  of  the  downs 
and  the  earth  spoke  to  him  of  the  power  of  life,  he 
had  seen  Lucinda  the  soul  of  his  soul  in  a  timeless 
world  of  eager  deeds.  On  the  stark,  desolate  fields 
of  Germany,  when  the  squadrons  clashed  and  he 
rode  to  victory  through  a  wild  whirl  of  war,  he  had 
seen  his  strength  bound  ever  to  her  service,  that  in 
union  they  might  conquer  and  guide  the  troubled 
course  of  things.  The  dream  had  been  granted.  He 
was  sure. 

He  could  not  be  very  unhappy  as  he  walked  in  the 
orchard  fragrance.  And  indeed  it  was  no  day  of 
misery.  A  swift  shower  had  just  gone  whirling  by, 
but  already,  breaking  through  a  smoky  cloud  rift, 
the  sun  was  clear  again,  and  the  wet  white  blossoms 
sparkled  with  rainbow  light,  and  the  daffodils  be- 
neath were  laden  with  a  gleaming  dew  of  gold.   On 


A    PERSON    OF    IMPORTANCE         55 

the  wet  air  came  the  wild,  glad  spirit  of  spring. 
Colonel  Stow  breathed  of  it  till  his  mind  was  whirled 
away  in  delight.  He  was  drunk  with  the  goodness 
of  things. 

In  which  happy  state  he  beheld  Joan  Normandy 
walking  by  the  violet  bank,  a  vision  of  neat  woman- 
hood. Colonel  Stow  felt  fatherly  and  approached 
her  smiling  in  that  style.  She  turned  her  back  on 
him.  "I  might  rashly  believe  that  I  have  displeased 
you,"  Colonel  Stow  mildly  conjectured,  and  turning, 
unashamed,  walked  by  her  side. 

She  flushed.  She  became  fierce.  "I  beg  you 
would  not  company  with  me,  sir,"  she  cried. 

"That  gives  me  the  right  to  ask  why,"  said  Colonel 
Stow  placidly. 

She  turned  to  face  him.  The  grave  gray  eyes 
flamed.    "You  have  made  a  mock  of  my  father." 

"Oh,"  Colonel  Stow  understood.  She  had  seen 
that  expedition  of  darkness.  "You  should  have  a 
conscience  that  will  let  you  sleep  o'  nights,  child. 
But  consider :  it  would  be  vanity  in  me  to  claim  that 
I  am  the  devil."  She  flung  away  from  him  and  sped 
on  over  the  turf  walk.  He  followed.  "Moreover, 
your  father  would  grieve  if  he  thought  Sathanas  was 
neglecting  him.  Your  anger  is  unreasonable."  She 
was  caught  in  an  angle  of  the  hedge,  and  could  not 
escape,  but  she  kept  her  face  hidden,  and  he  saw 
her  hand  at  her  eyes.  "Why,  child,"  says  he,  with 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  "  'tis  an  idle  jest  enough, 
but  you  make  too  much  of  it.    Your  father  has  taken 


56  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

no  hurt,  nor  his  cause.  Nay,  believe  me.  'Tis  only 
a  lad  in  love  I  have  snatched  from  prison,  and  your 
father  is  no  worse  for  it.  Why  make  it  so  grave  a 
matter?" 

"You  have — you  have  made  me  act  in  a  lie,"  she 
sobbed. 

This  precision  of  righteousness  was  something  be- 
yond Colonel  Stow.  He  took  his  hand  from  her. 
"Pray,  if  it  would  ease  your  conscience,  tell  him  the 
truth." 

She  turned  on  him  again,  miserable  and  much 
wrath.     "You  know  I  can  not,  and — and   I   hate  , 
you !" 

Colonel  Stow  caressed  his  beard.  "You  are  out  of 
my  knowledge,  child,"  he  confessed.  "If  I  can  make 
your  way  easier,  show  me." 

"I  am  a  spy  on  you  if  I  tell.  And  you  saved  us. 
Oh,"  she  made  a  gesture  of  impatient  childish  wrath, 
"I  can  not  tell  why  you  should  meddle  to  help  him. 
He  had  betrayed  you  with  her.  What  are  they  to 
you?" 

Colonel  Stow  became  erect.  "You  talk  of  what 
you  know  nothing,  child,"  he  said  stiffly. 

But  she  would  not  be  rebuked,  and  they  stood 
against  each  other  in  angry  dignity.  Until — since 
all  dignity  in  this  world  is  fated  to  a  mirthful  end 
— until  a  hen,  fleeing  with  hysterical  complaints, 
hurtled  through  Colonel  Stow's  legs  and  vanished 
through  the  hedge.  She  was  pursued  by  a  small, 
round,   determined   child,   who,   finding  these  two 


A    PERSON    OF    IMPORTANCE         57 

large  people,  checked  and  stood  before  them  stolid,  a 
person  conscious  of  importance.  Solemnly  he  looked 
from  one  to  the  other,  then,  his  blue  eyes  large  and 
accusing,  he  turned  to  Colonel  Stow.  "You  have 
made  that  lady  cry,"  he  said  gravely. 

Joan  Normandy  gave  a  queer,  nervous  laugh. 

It  displeased  the  child,  who  thought  her  disre- 
spectful to  him.  He  devoted  himself  to  Colonel  Stow. 
"Man,"  says  he,  with  the  easy  dignity  of  an  equal, 
"who  are  you?"  Colonel  Stow  gravely  accounted 
for  himself.  "I,"  said  the  child,  "am  Antony  Jewe- 
miah  Higgs.    What  is  you  doing?" 

"Sir,  I  am  being  scolded,"  said  Colonel  Stow 
sadly. 

Antony  Jeremiah  Higgs  turned  the  eye  of  a  cold 
critic  upon  Joan  Normandy,  who  indeed,  between 
anger  and  unhappiness,  was  not  comely.  He  revert- 
ed to  Colonel  Stow.  "Does  you  know  Martha?" 
Colonel  Stow  denied  it.  "Martha  is  like  that  when 
she  is  cross  with  Sam." 

"Antony  Jeremiah  Higgs,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  "a 
man  does  not  chatter  about  ladies." 

The  child  was  plainly  disappointed,  having  doubt- 
less intended  a  further  parallel  with  Martha.  But 
he  took  the  hint  gentlemanly,  and  changed  the  sub- 
ject with  vigor.  "Man,"  says  he,  "can  you  make 
men?" 

"I  am  not  allowed  to,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  should  not  do  it  well  enough." 


58  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Try,"  said  the  child  imperiously,  and  turned 
upon  Joan.    "Can't  you  make  men  ?" 

"Not  very  well,"  says  she,  and  then,  with  impa- 
tience at  the  foolish  stupefaction  of  Colonel  Stow: 
"He  means  out  of  wood,  of  course." 

"Oh !  Faith,  that  is  an  easier  task,"  said  Colonel 
Stow,  and  pulled  down  a  sturdy  twig  of  walnut, 
sliced  it  off,  and  began  to  whittle  it  into  mannikins. 
Antony  Jeremiah  Higgs  directed  masterfully  the 
details  of  the  creation.  The  Adam  of  it  did  not 
please  him,  and  he  generously  handed  the  creature 
to  Joan.  "You  may  have  that.  I  like  them  with 
legs." 

"Legs  are  but  vanity,  a  means  to  naughtiness," 
said  Colonel  Stow,  but  began  to  construct  them, 
while  the  child  clung  to  him  in  anxious  delight. 

"Now  make  them  some  women." 

"Faith,"  says  Colonel  Stow,  "I  think  they  will  be 
more  at  peace  without  them." 

"They  must  have  mothers,"  said  the  child. 

"They  should  have  thought  of  that  before  they 
were  born." 

Antony  Jeremiah  Higgs  had  too  serious  a  mind  to 
dally  with  flippant  ingenuity.  "Go  on,"  he  ordered 
with  some  scorn,  and  Colonel  Stow  meekly  continued 
the  creation. 

Joan  Normandy  stood  by  them,  still,  uncon- 
strained now.  She  watched  the  small  boy  clinging 
about  Colonel  Stow,  eager,  happy,  and  Colonel  Stow 
giving  himself  gaily  to  meet  the  manifold  needs  of 


A    PERSON    OF    IMPORTANCE         59 

childish  importance,  and  the  trouble  was  smoothed 
away  from  her  face. 

Blue  clouds  had  clashed  on  the  hill  above  Wend- 
over,  and  a  whirl  of  rain  came  by.  But  the  sun  was 
clear  still,  and  soon  a  rainbow  spanned  the  vale. 
^'What  is  it?"  said  Antony  Jeremiah  Higgs,  and  was 
told.  He  gazed  with  round,  approving  eyes  at  the 
splendor.    "I  want  it,"  said  he. 

"Are  you  sure  you  can  find  it?"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

There  was  the  child's  look  of  wonder  at  man's 
folly.    "Of  course  I  can  find  it.    Come  wiv  me." 

So,  with  a  child  for  guide.  Colonel  Stow  went  off 
to  find  a  rainbow.  Joan  Normandy,  left  behind, 
looked  at  the  round  scrap  of  life  poised  to  the  swing 
of  the  man's  shoulder,  and  smiled  like  the  spring- 
time, through  tears. 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

COLONEL   STOW   IS   AGAIN   INSPIRED 

IN  the  farm-yard  Alciblade,  who  had  a  mind  inter- 
ested in  all  things,  examined  the  domestic  habits 
of  the  Berkshire  pig.  His  investigations  were  inter- 
rupted by  the  issue  of  Matthieu-Marc  from  the 
kitchen.  Matthieu-Marc  came  like  a  shooting  star, 
with  flying  dishwater  for  his  tail.  From  the  door- 
way a  plump  and  rubicund  cook  spoke  of  his  char- 
acter in  the  style  of  the  recording  angel,  and 
threatened  shrilly  of  the  wrath  to  come. 

Alcibiade  shook  his  head  at  the  off"ender.  "You 
always  make  love  with  too  much  salt  in  it.  It  is  also 
the  fault  of  your  soups.  And  disagreeable  to  per- 
sons of  innocent  mind." 

"I  do  not  desire  to  please  children,"  said  Mat- 
thieu-Marc, wrathful  still.  "And  it  is  not  a  matter 
of  love,  but  of  sauce." 

"It  is  the  same  thing,"  said  Alcibiade,  "to  persons 
of  delicacy." 

"I  wished  to  make  a  sauce  of  garlic  and  olives  to 
serve  with  the  roast  beef — a  sauce  alluring  and 
subtle.  She  resented  it.  She  Is  a  person  of  no  soul. 
Come  away." 

60 


COLONEL    STOW    AGAIN    INSPIRED  6i 

They  went,  and,  Matthieu-Marc  being  in  the 
power  of  his  emotions,  went  with  speed  till  they 
came  to  a  hurdled  meadow,  where  the  shepherds 
were  busy  among  many  lambs.  Of  them  Alcibiade, 
who  was  not  fond  of  going  upon  his  own  legs,  made 
an  excuse  to  stop.  But  Matthieu-Marc  was  impa- 
tient. "They  tire  me,  your  sheep.  Bah,  it  is  a  coun- 
try all  sheep,  I  think,  with  no  taste  for  savories  and 
no  divine  desire  of  war.  M.  le  Colonel  also,  I  do  not 
understand  him  any  more.  He  dallies.  He  is  in  two 
minds — like  the  soup  of  these  English,  which  does 
not  know  whether  it  would  be  water  or  grease." 

"In  fact,  my  dear  M,atthieu,  you  have  no  intellect. 
You  do  not  understand  anything  but  the  one  little 
belly  of  your  own.  M.  le  Colonel,  he  is  like  the  late 
Bayard  and  myself;  he  fights  to  fulfil  his  own  glori- 
ous nature.  He  is  a  soldier  of  dreams.  That  is  why 
he  and  I  are  very  terrible  in  war.  We  desire  only  to 
give  our  great  souls  full  play." 

"In  that  case,  my  friend,  you  should  become  a 
sheep,"  growled  Matthieu-Marc. 

Alcibiade  contemplated  the  bleating  lambs  with 
benignity.  "My  dear  Matthieu,"  says  he,  "most  men, 
being  stupid  like  yourself,  desire  to  make  life  more 
savory  than  is  good  for  them.  By  example,  as  you 
want  foods  that  make  the  innocent  stomach  wrath, 
so  you  lust  after  plunder  in  war.  But  your  soldier 
of  dreams  seeks  only  to  be  himself  and  let  his  great- 
ness shine  before  men." 

"I  can  behold  a  sheep  thinking  himself  great," 


62  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

murmured  Matthieu-Marc.     "He  would  be  amus- 
mg. 

"It  is  something,  after  all,  to  be  the  perfect 
sheep,"  said  Alcibiade, 

And  meanwhile  the  soldier  of  dreams  was  away  to 
his  desire.  He  had  permitted  himself  some  splen- 
dor. A  feather  of  peaceful  green  caressed  his  hat, 
and  the  rest  of  him  was  a  consonant  blue.  I  find 
something  of  his  nature  in  this  affection  for  blue  and 
green.  There  was  lace  from  Bruges  at  his  throat, 
caught  in  a  brooch  of  sapphires.  For  all  this,  Lu- 
cinda,  I  fear,  liked  him  the  better.  Moreover,  he 
was  plainly  a  man,  and  therefore  a.  relief  from  the 
epicene  wooing  of  my  Lady  Lepe,  And  Lucinda, 
too,  perhaps,  had  dwelt  with  dreams.  When  she 
first  waked  to  know  her  womanhood  he  had  been  in 
her  heart.    That  availed  always. 

It  is  likely  she  was  hoping  for  him  when  she  came 
out  beyond  the  hedge  of  roses  to  the  park.  So  you 
might  explain  the  sweet  humility  of  her  gown,  all 
simple  and  silver  gray.  She  met  him  with  a  shy 
curtsy  and  downcast  eyes.  "I  had  no  right  to  hope 
for  this,  sir." 

"You  have  ever  the  right  to  command  me,  ma- 
dame." 

"It  becomes  me  better  to  ask  your  pardon."  She 
raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"Madame?" 

"To  play  before  you  in  so  ill  a  jest." 


COLONEL    STOW   AGAIN    INSPIRED  63 

"I  would  give  my  life  to  know  how  much  was  jest, 
madame." 

Her  neck  grew  rosy  (that  was  a  great  beauty  of 
hers),  "What  must  you  think  me?"  she  cried.  "Tell 
me,  tell  me  how  much  you  know." 

"Of  this,  madame,  I  can  know  nothing  but  what 
your  own  lips  tell." 

"You  know  it  was  a  man  ?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
Colonel  Stow  bowed.  "And  yet  you,  surely  none  but 
you,  set  him  free?"  He  bowed  again.  "Why,  then, 
why?" 

"Since  he  was  at  least  a  friend  of  yours,"  said 
Colonel  Stow. 

"And  if  he  were  more?" 

Colonel  Stow  drew  in  his  breath.  "Then — I  am 
the  more  glad  that  I  helped  him,"  he  said  slowly. 

"I  think  you  live  to  make  me  ashamed,"  she  said, 
and  somewhile  looked  at  him  silent,  her  clear  eyes 
intent  and  unafraid,  but  strangely  gentle.  "And  if 
I  tell  you  he  is  no  more  to  me  than  another  man, 
what  shall  I  seem — whom  you  saw  in  his  arms  ?" 

"I  am  more  sure  of  your  honor  than  my  own," 
said  Colonel  Stow. 

"Yes!"  She  flung  her  arms  wide  and  laughed 
glad  to  the  sky.  "Yes,  you  ring  true.  I  should  wish 
you  to  know  all,  if  you  will.  This  Mr.  Bourne,  why, 
I  profess  I  like  him  not  ill,  but  he  is  more  boy  than 
man.  He  is  pleased  to  believe  himself  devoted  to 
me,  and  hath  ventured  himself  from  Oxford  often 
in  this  disguise.     Oh,  I  doubt  I  have  been  foolishly 


64  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

kind,  but  indeed  he  amused  me,  and  did  himself  no 
ill,  I  think.  'Tis  just  a  joyous,  honest  lad.  But  in- 
deed he  has  a  bold  mischief  in  him,  and — why,  I  can 
not  tell  now  whether  to  laugh  or  be  angry — he  made 
his  advantage  of  your  presence  to — to" —  she  was  in 
a  pretty  confusion — "in  fine,  sir,  'twas  yourself  won 
him  what  he  had.  I  dared  not  deny  the  rogue,  lest 
you  should  suspect  him  no  woman.  And  I  could  not 
betray  him  to  you,  for  I  feared  you  committed  to  the 
Puritans,  like  your  brother.  So  he  had  his  impudent 
will."  She  smiled,  shy-eyed,  and  blushing  in  a  de- 
lectable way.  "Oh,  I  ought  to  feel  it  more  hurt — 
but — but  he — well,  some  day  another  woman  will 
make  him  know  it  is  not  play." 

"A  man  might  make  him  know  it  was  an  inso- 
lence," said  Colonel  Stow  with  some  relish. 

"Why,  yes,  sir,  when  I  give  some  man  the  right." 
And  Colonel  Stow  bowed  to  the  rebuke.  "But  have 
you  heard  enough  of  me  to  tell  me  something  of 
yourself?" 

"I  think  you  know  the  best  of  me,"  said  Colonel 
Stow  in  a  low  voice. 

"Indeed,  1  know  no  terrible  ill,"  she  smiled. 

"The  best  of  me  is  that  I  love  you."  He  took  her 
hand  and  she  turned  a  little  away.  "That  is  the 
strength  of  my  life."  She  did  not  answer,  but  she 
did  not  grudge  him  her  hand. 

So  they  stood  when  a  shadow  fell  between  them. 
"With  whom  do  you  company  by  stealth,  woman?" 
said  one,  mouthing  in  the  manner  of  the  pulpit 


COLONEL    STOW   AGAIN    INSPIRED  65 

Colonel  Stow  turned,  stiffening  to  behold  Cornet 
Jehoiada  Tompkins.  Cornet  Tompkins  was  large 
and  upon  the  way  to  fatness.  His  face  had  reached 
it,  and  in  some  parts  betrayed  a  kindness  for  the 
good  things  of  this  world.  He  had  the  swelling 
port,  the  mobile  lips  of  the  man  of  speech.  Colonel 
Stow  surveyed  him  with  an  amused  contempt  that 
stung.  He  moistened  his  lips  and  rolled  his  eyes. 
"Who  art  thou  in  the  purple  and  fine  linen  of  the 
Canaanites?"  he  cried. 

"Concerning  purple,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  "though 
I  think  it  be  the  bully  among  colors,  it  has  the  pat- 
ronage of  your  nose." 

"Fellow,  we  are  not  met  to  debate  the  fashion  of 
my  countenance,"  cried  Cornet  Tompkins. 

"Indeed,  sir,  it  calls  not  for  debate,  but  lamenta- 
tions," Colonel  Stow  admitted. 

"I  see  well  that  thou  art  of  the  blood  of  Shimei 
which  cursed  David.  Thy  name,  oh  thou  man  of 
Belial,  and  thy  purpose  here?" 

"My  name,  sir,  is  Stow,  and  my  purpose  is  to 
glorify  your  nose.  Believe  me,  sir,  'tis  a  sweet 
member." 

Cornet  Tompkins  was  plainly  embarrassed.  "Are 
you  of  one  blood  with  that  godly  Master  David 
Stow  which  is  major  in  Colonel  Ireton's  regiment?" 

"His  unworthy  brother  am  I.  And  could  wish 
him  here,  that  we  might  make  a  duetto  concerning 
your  nose,  its  complexion.  Yet  will  I  do  what  I 
can  to  hymn  it  worthily  alone." 


66  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Cornet  Tompkins,  feeling  his  nose  nervously,  be- 
came plaintive.  "Sir,  it  ill  beseems  you  to  mock  at 
a  man  of  God  before  a  Canaanitish  woman," 

"Mock?  Who,  I?  Sir,  I  am  all  lamentation.  I 
could  mourn  with  you  all  the  day  long.  Like  a 
Dutch  tulip  at  dawn — "  Cornet  Tompkins  did  not 
wait  for  the  elaboration  of  that  poetic  simile.  He 
strutted  off,  wrapped  in  embarrassed  indignation. 

With  a  whimsical  smile  Colonel  Stow  turned  to 
Lucinda  again.  "Life  is  like  that,  I  think.  A  crea- 
ture with  such  a  nose  shadows  us  when  we  dream. 
Pray,  madame,  what  is  his  affair  here?" 

"He  hath  quartered  himself  upon  us,"  said  Lu- 
cinda angrily.  "Oh,  sir,  'tis  not  to  be  borne.  A 
boor  that  forces  himself  into  my  mother's  withdraw- 
ing-room  to  whine  his  sermons." 

Colonel  Stow  took  counsel  with  his  beard.  "It 
were  easy  to  fix  a  quarrel  on  him  whereof  he  would 
not  recover.  But  I  doubt  you  would  but  have  more 
of  his  kind  to  trouble  you.  Nevertheless,  I  am  heart- 
ily at  your  command  if  you  desire  it." 

"Nay,  that  is  no  help,  sir.  The  fellow  swears  we 
are  to  have  a  company  of  his  knaves  billeted  on  us 
till  the  war  ends — because,  forsooth,  we  have  given 
shelter  to  spies  of  the  King.  Indeed,  sir,  I  have 
much  to  thank  Mr.  Bourne  for.  These  vile  Round- 
heads make  my  life  hideous.  They  force  their 
brutish  persons  upon  me  in  every  chamber.  They 
deafen  me  whining  their  psalms.  They  pray  at  me 
with  vile  names.     Oh,  I  would  that  the  King  might 


COLONEL    STOW   AGAIN    INSPIRED  67 

conquer  speedily,  and  whip  the  knaves  back  to  their 
kennels." 

Colonel  Stow's  brow  was  bent,  and  his  eyes  fiery, 
but  he  spoke  calmly  enough.  "You  are  all  for  the 
King,  madame?" 

"Who  is  not  but  such  base  rogues  as  these?"  she 
cried.  "Oh,  I  would  that  I  were  a  man  to  strike  for 
him.  Sure,  sir,  every  noble  heart  is  with  him.  'Tis 
the  honor  of  England  for  which  he  fights.  How 
should  he  yield  his  realm  to  the  madness  of  base- 
born  fanatics?  His  cause  is  the  cause  of  every  man 
of  right  knightly  blood.  Shall  such  rogues  as  these 
be  our  masters?  Nay,  sir,  who  Is  loyal  to  himself  is 
loyal  to  the  King.  Each  man  that  hath  any  honor, 
ay,  each  woman,  is  bound  to  him."  She  was  fair 
enough,  with  her  eyes  aflame  and  bosom  surging. 

Colonel  Stow  bowed.  "You  have  spoken,  mad- 
ame." She  smiled  at  him,  with  a  new  light  in  her 
eyes  and  quick,  eager,  flung  out  her  hand  to  him. 
His  lips  stayed  upon  it  long,  and  as  she  smiled  down 
at  him  a  strange  tenderness  made  her  face  lovely. 
Colonel  Stow  was  something  pale  as  he  stood  again 
erect,  and  a  long  while  their  eyes  spoke  together. 
Then,  with  her  bosom  rising,  her  neck  rosy,  she 
turned  a  little  away. 

But  when,  in  ,a  while,  Colonel  Stow  spoke  again, 
he  was  calm  enough.  "It  is  plain,  madame,  that, 
while  you  can  not  drive  these  rogues  away,  you  can 
leave  them  behind.  Are  there  friends  where  you 
can  make  your  home  a  while?" 


68  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

She  hesitated  a  while,  finger  on  cheek,  then  with 
a  sudden  glad  cry :  "Ah,  but  Oxford !  To  the 
King  at  Oxford!  One  could  live  there."  Then  her 
face  fell  again.  "But  these  knaves  would  not  suffer 
it.    We  are  in  prison  to  them." 

Colonel  Stow  smiled.  "I  can  not  permit  a  gentle- 
man of  such  a  nose  to  meddle  with  my  emotions," 
said  he. 

"But" — she  looked  doubt  and  surprise,  and  was 
plainly  puzzled — "but  he  has  many,  so  many  men," 
she  faltered.     "It  is  like  a  regiment." 

"It  is  in  fact  half  a  troop,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  who 
had  a  neat  mind.  He  smiled  again.  "They  make 
the  affair  an  entertainment." 

"You  mean  that  you  can?"  she  cried,  and  he 
bowed.  "Everything  is  easy  with  you,"  she  said 
slowly.  She  drew  a  long  breath.  Her  eyes  began  to 
flame.  "Oh,  it  is  good,  it  is  good  to  be  by  your  side. 
You  are  sure.    You  give  me  life." 

He  flushed.  He  caught  her  hands  in  a  grip  that 
hurt  her,  and  her  breast  beat  against  his.  And,  as 
a  strange,  keen  throb  of  passion  waked  in  him,  he 
saw  Cornet  Tompkins  under  the  elms  regarding 
them  gloomily. 

It  was  necessary  to  part  with  laughter. 

Then  Colonel  Stow,  approaching  Cornet  Tomp- 
kns  with  determination,  described  in  fullness  his 
nose.  It  obtruded,  nevertheless,  persistent  into  the 
dreams  of  life. 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

UPON   THE   USE   OF   A   NOSE 

COLONEL  ROYSTON  complained  of  the  nature 
of  things.  The  fork  of  a  pear  tree  made  him  a 
pleasant  seat,  and  at  whiles  its  blossom  fell  upon 
him,  so  that  he  had  an  Arcadian  air.  The  smoke  of 
his  pipe  rose  comfortably  to  the  lucid  sky.  Yet  he 
complained.  He  desired  fruit  as  well  as  flower. 
"For,"  says  he,  "the  virginity  of  this  white  blossom 
purifies  the  mind  so  that  I  am  in  the  mood  to  eat 
fruit  with  a  devout  relish.  But  when  the  fruit  is 
here,  my  mind,  unadorned  with  flowers,  is  but  gross 
and  carnal,  which  is  proper  enough  for  blood  pud- 
dings (Jerry,  my  love,  the  black  puddings  of  Er- 
bach !) ,  but  spoils  the  taste  of  fruit.  Ah,  would  that 
I  had  been  consulted  in  the  creation !" 

"As  I  see  it,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  who  was 
stretched  full  length  beneath  him,  "the  flaw  in  the 
world  is  the  nose  of  Jehoiada.  Since  Nuremberg, 
when  we  made  them  of  our  breeches,  I  have  ever 
doubted  a  sausage.  Sure,  the  man  who  uses  one  for 
a  nose  is  a  misanthrope.  Nay,  George,  the  nose  of 
Jehoiada  must  determine  us." 

"For  myself,  if  I  were  not  beautiful,  I  would 
69 


70  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

choose  to  be  a  gargoyle,"  said  Royston.  "But  you 
were  born  shy,  Jerry.  What  ails  you  with  Jehoiada? 
Does  he  wear  his  nose  haughtily  ?" 

"With  a  crude  pride.  He  flaunts  it  in  the  delicate 
places  of  my  soul.  Oh,  'tis  the  ugliness  of  all  the 
world  incarnate.  It  is  plain,  George,  since  the  nose 
of  Jehoiada  is  of  one  side  (certainly  God  forbid  it 
should  be  upon  two.  That  would  be  unfair.  There 
is  but  one  hell) ,  we  must  be  of  the  other." 

Colonel  Royston  regarded  his  friend  with  a  sin- 
gular benignity.  "We  are  to  ride  for  the  King, 
Jerry?  Then  I  think  there  is  another  nose  than 
Jehoiada's  that  is  guiding  us — to  wit,  the  fair  nose 
of  Mistress  Lucinda." 

"When,  by  the  grace  of  God,  you  learn  to  love  a 
woman — " 

"We  shall  both  regret  it,"  said  Colonel  Royston 
with  decision. 

" — her  nose  will  be  to  you  a  thing  of  no  ac- 
count— " 

"That  will  add  piquancy  to  the  amour." 

"  'Tis  no  part,  but  the  divine  whole  of  her  will  in- 
spire you.  So  it  is  now  with  me,  I  will  not  deny  it. 
Indeed,  I  am  engaged  to  liberate  her  from  the  nose 
of  Jehoiada  and  bring  her  to  Oxford  to  the  King. 
Wherefore,  George,  propound  me  a  strategy.  Jehoi- 
ada guards  the  Manor  with  his  nose  and  half  a  troop. 
We  muster  but  four,  for  I  would  not  bring  my  fath- 
er's hinds  into  the  affair — who  are  indeed  but  bump- 
kins." 


UPON    THE    USE    OF    A    NOSE        71 

Colonel  Royston  waved  away  smoke.  "So  my  lady 
would  go  to  the  King,"  said  he,  drily  enough.  "Per- 
haps she  would  also  go  to  Mr.  Bourne?" 

"Mr.  Bourne  is  only  an  impudent  boy  who  is 
pleased  to  believe  himself  enamored,"  said  Colonel 
Stow.   "He  is  not  very  amusing,  but  no  more  harm." 

Colonel  Royston  looked  down  at  his  friend  with  a 
singular  affection.  "All  is  well,  Jerry?"  he  said 
softly. 

"Very  well.  ...  I  see  good  days,  George.  We 
will  make  ourselves  somewhat  to  this  King  of  ours. 
.  .  .  And  to  fight  before  the  eyes  of  my  lady."  .  . 
He  laughed.  .  .  .  "Well,  the  first  pleasure  is  to 
discomfort  Jehoiada.  A  strategy,  George!  Pro- 
pound me  a  strategy.  With  four  to  defeat  half  a 
troop.    'Tis  worthy  of  your  genius." 

Colonel  Royston  withdrew  his  pipe  and  caressed 
his  moustachio.  "You  remember  how  Strozzi  got 
the  little  Margravine  away  from  the  Croats  at  Pfiil- 
lingen?  Put  poppy  juice  in  their  beer  and  cut  their 
snoring  throats.  But  she  had  a  strong  stomach,  the 
little  Margravine,  and  your  lady  might  think  it  over 
sanguinary." 

"Strozzi  is  a  butcher,"  said  Colonel  Stow  shortly. 

"He  does  make  a  mess,"  Royston  admitted.  "But 
he  arrives.  You  want  a  strategy  of  delicacy,  a  cam- 
paign for  petticoats.  It  is  not  in  my  way.  I  am  not 
sure  that  it  is  decent." 

Colonel  Stow  began  picking  daisies.  "H  there 
were  firing,"  said  he,  "much  firing,  at  dusk  or  dawn 


72  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

(Alcibiade  could  make  a  very  thunder  with  two 
carbines),  Jehoiada  should  take  the  most  of  his  men 
out  against  it,  and  we  might  swoop  upon  the  Manor 
and  be  gone." 

Royston  shook  his  head.  "If  I  am  too  sanguinary, 
you  are  too  sanguine,  Jerry,"  said  he;  "and,  i'gad, 
that  sums  up  our  natures  fairly.  I  know  no  surety 
Jehoiada  will  be  a  fool  the  way  you  need.  When  he 
hears  firing  he  is  as  like  to  shut  himself  in  the  Manor 
and  stand  to  arms.  Well,  we  be  a  pair  of  paladins, 
indeed,  but  miracles  are  out  of  fashion." 

Colonel  Stow  cast  daisies  into  the  air  and  gravely 
watched  them  fall. 

Above  the  hedge  rose  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a 
man  who  rode  down  the  lane,  a  Puritan  officer. 
Colonel  Stow  sat  up.  "My  brother !"  said  he,  with  a 
whistle  of  doleful  mirth.  "He  complicates  the  af- 
fair." 

In  a  minute  Major  David  Stow  strode  into  the 
orchard.  He  wore  a  light  corselet  and  helmet  of 
polished  steel,  and  his  sleeves  and  breeches  were 
tawny  red.  There  was  no  doubt  of  the  brotherhood. 
They  were  a  match  in  strength,  of  the  same  whole- 
some pallor,  the  same  earnest,  glad  eye.  But  David 
Stow's  faith  kept  him  clean  shaven  and  his  hair 
cropped.  And  there  was  brotherhood  enough  in  the 
greeting.  .  .  .  Colonel  Royston  saluted  with  a 
lifted  pipe  and  an  approving  smile  from  the  tree.  I 
think  he  had  always  an  admiration  for  David  Stow. 

The  brothers  were  side  by  side  on  the  grass.    "It 


UPON    THE    USE    OF    A    NOSE        73 

is  good  to  have  you  home,  Jerry.  And  you  are  come 
in  a  good  hour.  This  poor  land  needs  such  as  you." 
David  looked  at  him  with  affection,  but  there  was 
no  answer.  Colonel  Stow  was  playing  with  a  daisy. 
"You'll  not  put  off  your  corselet  yet,  Jerry?"  David 
cried  in  some  surprise. 

"Nay,  lad,  I  wear  it.  But  for  which  cause?" 
"It  is  not  you  who  can  fight  for  tyranny — a  tyr- 
anny that  would  own  body  and  soul."  For  the  first 
time  Colonel  Stow  heard  the  faith  that  fired  the 
strongest  hearts  of  his  day — that  a  man  must  be  free 
to  worship  his  God  what  way  he  would  without  the 
leave  of  bishop  or  King;  that  free  men  could  only 
live  in  a  realm  themselves  ruled ;  that  the  King  must 
be  servant  of  his  people,  not  master.  David  Stow 
preached  it  with  a  passion  that  made  his  brother 
wonder,  and  with  a  strange  power.  Here  was  a  shy 
country  lad  become  a  man  sure  of  himself  and  mas- 
terful. Colonel  Stow  knew  strength  and  honored  it. 
And  yet,  though  he  had  been  free  to  believe, 
though  no  woman  had  bound  him  to  another  cause, 
I  doubt  the  Puritan  faith  had  never  held  him.  He 
knew  men  over  well.  He  saw  that  the  world  had  no 
heart  for  the  stern  virtue  of  the  Puritan.  For  each 
to  do  what  seemed  good  to  himself  must  needs  be 
chaos.  He  felt,  as  a  man  is  sure  with  no  need  of 
reason,  that  the  mass  of  men  were  not  ready  to  be 
free.  In  a  masterless  realm  he  saw  cruelty  and  the 
ruin  of  waste.  He  had  no  hope  of  a  nation  of  saints, 
it  may  be,  no  desire.     He  believed  in  order  and  the 


74  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

middle  path  passionately,  sternly,  as  fanatics  their 
own  wild  faith.  And  the  fervor  of  his  brother  left 
him  cold. 

Still  David  Stow  went  on  with  swelling  heart 
proclaiming  the  kingdom  of  God  on  earth.  "Nay, 
Jerry,  you  must  be  with  us,"  he  cried  at  last;  "there 
is  but  one  cause  for  such  as  you." 

"  'Tis  a  fair  dream,  lad,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  look- 
ing up  from  his  ruined  daisy  with  something  of  a 
sad  smile,  "but  a  dream  not  of  our  day." 

"Nay,  this  is  the  hour!  'Tis  we  are  called  to  the 
work!  Let  us  be  glad  that  to  us  is  the  glory  to 
found  surely  a  nation  of  righteousness.  We  must  to 
arms  and  set  all  men  free  from  the  bonds  of  the 
tyrant  of  sin." 

Colonel  Stow  shook  his  head.  "My  world  is  not 
your  world,  lad.  I  see  men  that  would  break  down 
a  good  order  given  us  from  of  old.  I  see  a  people, 
no  saints,  but  kindly  fools,  that  need  the  old  rule  to 
guide  them  aright.  David,  lad,  the  hour  has  not 
struck  for  your  design.  And  I — well,  I  am  not  a 
man  of  to-morrow." 

But  again  David  Stow  must  proclaim  his  vision, 
that  strange,  glad  vision  of  a  world  not  come  yet, 
where  each  man  shall  be  free  to  do  his  own  will,  and 
each  earnest  with  an  austere  passion  to  do  the  will  of 
God.  To  the  men  of  his  faith  and  his  day  it  was 
near,  it  was  all  but  real.  Colonel  Stow  shook  his 
head.  He  saw  too  clearly  to  believe.  David  pleaded 
passionately  still.     It  was  hard  for  him  to  deem  a 


UPON    THE    USE    OF    A    NOSE        75 

man  honest  who  stood  against  his  cause.  But  he  was 
sure  of  his  brother,  and  needed  him,  I  think,  as  man 
not  often  needs  man.  And  at  last :  "You  must  be  of 
us,  Jerry!"  he  cried.  "The  cause  calls  for  such  as 
you.   And  I — I  want  you  by  my  side." 

It  was  strongest  of  all  he  had  said.  Colonel  Stow 
drew  in  his  breath.  "I  am  pledged  to  another  cause, 
lad,"  he  said  slowly. 

His  brother  looked  In  his  eyes  and  knew  there  was 
no  answer.  Silent  he  held  out  his  hand,  silent  he 
rose.  Then,  turning  away,  he  saw  Colonel  Royston 
grave  beyond  his  custom.  Their  eyes  met.  In  the 
hardest  days  that  came  there  was  always  something 
of  a  kindness  between  these  two.  "I  must  not  ask 
you?"  said  David  Stow.  Royston  shook  his  head. 
David  Stow  looked  at  his  brother  again,  and  went 
away  sorrowful. 

They  were  not  wholly  light  of  heart  whom  he  left 
behind.  "I  would  as  soon  be  that  man  as  myself," 
said  Colonel  Royston  pensively. 

If  Colonel  Stow  could  not  feel  that — for  to  him 
was  granted  the  excellence  of  Lucinda — it  was  yet 
some  while  before  he  brought  his  thoughts  back  to 
the  problem  of  the  hour.  "There  remains,"  said  he, 
"the  obstacle  of  Jehoiada.  I  hope  my  brother  is  not 
a  friend  of  his." 

"If  he  is,  we  had  best  go  borrow  an  army,"  said 
Colonel  Royston  grimly. 

But  that  fear  was  removed,  for  they  saw  David 
Stow  pass  the  orchard  hedge  again,  riding  back  to 


^6  COLONEL  GREATHEART 

Aylesbury.  He  waved  his  hand,  and  was  gone  many 
a  day  from  his  brother's  life. 

Colonel  Stow  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  "He  could 
not,  indeed,  be  the  comrade  of  such  a  nose.  .  .  . 
That  nose !    George,  it  gives  me  an  idea." 

"An  idea  of  low  birth." 

"  'Tis  a  suspicious  member,  the  nose.  And  such  a 
nose!  I  will  be  sworn  Jehoiada  is  suspicious.  It 
would  be  but  kindness  to  give  that  nose  employ. 
Well,  he  shall  suspect.  Gerechter  Herrgott!  How 
he  shall  suspect !" 

Colonel  Royston  coughed — coughed  so  piteously 
that  his  friend  looked  up  in  sympathy.  Six  feet 
away  in  the  garden  he  beheld  Joan  Normandy 
plucking  daffodils.  "How  sweetly  innocent  are 
flowers,"  said  Colonel  Royston,  recovering  from  his 
illness. 

Colonel  Stow  shook  his  head.  "I  discover  in  you 
a  likeness  to  Jehoiada,  George,"  he  said  sorrowfully. 
Joan  Normandy,  with  a  certain  defiant  deliberation, 
completed  her  nosegay.   She  then  departed  leisurely. 

"I  would  trust  anything,"  said  Colonel  Royston, 
"but  righteou.sness." 


CHAPTER    NINE 

CONCERNING  THE   ANGEL   URIEL 

"  TEHOIADA  TOMPKINS,  Cornet,  will  be  moved 
J  of  the  spirit  at  half  after  ten  in  the  Sabbath 
forenoon  in  the  palace  of  the  Amalekites,  which  is 
called  Stoke  Manor."  Such  was  the  grateful  news 
conveyed  to  the  homestead  in  Jehoiada's  own  hand. 
It  begat  some  unseemly  mirth  from  Colonel  Royston 
and  an  offer  of  his  part  to  conduct  Mistress  Nor- 
mandy to  Jehoiada's  punctual  motions.  "Sir,"  says 
she,  with  her  chin  in  the  air,  "I  desire  your  escort 
nowhere."  For  if  Colonel  Royston  loved  her  little, 
she  was  ever  something  less  than  Christian  to  him. 

Colonel  Stow  held  the  gate  for  her  as  she  went 
forth,  all  black  and  white,  clasping  close  in  her  hand 
a  worn  Bible,  and  he  stayed  a  while  looking  after. 
Her  loneliness  appealed  to  him,  and  that  faith  of  the 
worn  Bible,  yet  there  was  something  ridiculous  in 
one  who  could  seek  the  ministrations  of  Jehoiada. 
Between  sympathy  and  mirth  he  watched  her  out  of 
sight.  Whereby  he  had  the  honor  of  a  salute  from 
a  strange  gentleman,  a  gentleman  who  progressed  in 
bounds,  like  a  fluttering  hen,  a  shaggy  gentleman 
who  was  naked  to  the  waist    He  halted  on  the  sight 

77. 


78  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

of  Colonel  Stow;  he  flung  out  a  talon  of  a  hand. 
"Woe  unto  thee!"  he  shrieked,  "Woe  unto  thee! 
I  am  the  Angel  Uriel !" 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  said  Colonel  Stow  politely. 

"I  do  not  like  thee,  thou  man  of  Babylon,  I  pour 
out  my  vial  upon  thee,  for  thou  hast  the  mark  of  the 
beast,  I  am  come  to  prophesy  thy  destruction.  I 
am  the  Angel  Uriel,  and  the  noise  of  my  roaring 
goeth  before  me.  For  I  am  charged  to  make  the 
high  places  tremble  and  the  mighty  men  flee  away. 
Woe  unto  thee !    Thou  shalt  have  a  grievous  sore." 

Then  Colonel  Stow  was  gripped  by  an  idea. 
"This  gentleman,"  said  he  to  himself,  "is  the  very 
man  for  Jehoiada."  But  aloud:  "Uriel,  my  friend, 
you  have  mistook  my  direction.  I  shall  have  no 
sore.  I  am  a  person  of  no  honor.  But  there  is  one 
Jehoiada  Tompkins  that  pretends  he  is  moved  by  the 
spirit — a  very  froward  preacher  that  hath  the  mark 
of  the  beast  upon  his  nose," 

"Give  me  word!"  cried  the  barebacked  gentle- 
man, "Is  he  of  them  that  would  testify  unto  the 
people?" 

"Very  painfully  he  does  so,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"It  is  against  such  I  am  sent,  that  they  may  gnaw 
their  tongues  in  shame.  Verily,  I  shall  prophesy 
unto  him  even  as  the  bite  of  a  scorpion.  Give  me 
word  of  him."  Colonel  Stow  gave  a  precise  direc- 
tion. Straightway  he  went  bounding  the  road,  cry- 
ing:   "Woe,  woe,  and  a  lake  of  fire!" 

Then  Colonel  Stow  went  in  and  made  Royston 


CONCERNING   THE    ANGEL    URIEL  79 

write  him  a  letter,  the  which  he  put  in  his  coat,  and 
himself  with  some  expedition  followed  the  bare- 
backed gentleman. 

For  my  part,  I  judge  Jehoiada  Tompkins  an  hon- 
est man  who  strove  earnestly  to  do  his  duty.  It  is 
not  easy  to  like  him  the  better.  Lucinda,  walking 
with  her  mother  along  the  gallery  of  Stoke  Manor, 
was  surprised  by  the  irruption  of  half  his  troop. 

"What  is  this  new  insolence?"  she  cried. 

"Cornet  Tompkins  would  give  his  testimony.  De- 
sire that  you  may  have  ears  to  hear,"  quoth  a  lank 
corporal. 

While  the  two  women  looked  at  each  other  in 
helpless  disgust,  others  came  flocking  to  the  gallery 
— such  of  the  peasants  as  were  stern  Puritans,  such 
as  had  the  gift  of  curiosity,  all  in  their  whitest 
smocks  and  finest  woolsey,  and  the  sergeants  of  the 
troop  ushered  them  into  an  orderly  array,  while  the 
troopers  marshalled  themselves  in  line  of  spiritual 
battle  behind.  Joan  Normandy  came,  guided  by  a 
solemn  giant  in  steel  and  buff",  but  her  eyes  went  this 
way  and  that  in  a  fashion  less  than  devout.  She  was 
hoping  to  see  Lucinda.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
who  it  was  in  the  silver  dress  with  the  proud  lips. 
Joan  flushed  strangely  and  hurried  by. 

It  was  a  great  company.  The  peasant  folk  came 
eagerly  to  spread  themselves  in  the  Manor  hall. 
They  felt  the  carved  wainscot,  the  pictures,  the  gilt 
armor  almost  their  own.  Each  one  of  them  swelled 
as  good  as  the  gentry.    Truly,  the  rule  of  the  saints 


8o  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

was  pleasant.  But  Cornet  Tompkins  was  by  no 
means  minded  to  comfort  them.  With  a  large  Bible 
and  the  swelling  port  of  the  preacher,  he  came.  His 
breastplate  gleamed  like  a  mirror,  the  linen  at  his 
throat  was  spotless  white,  his  face  glowed  and  shone. 
He  ascended  a  chair,  glowered,  and  smacked  his 
lips  at  the  congregation. 

"Unto  me,  Jehoiada,  the  Lord's  cornet,  came  a 
voice  saying,  'Speak !'  Then  I  knew  it  was  an  hour 
of  wrath,  and  I  cried  aloud  to  you,  'Come  unto  me, 
that  I  may  chasten  you.'  Verily,  I  will  spare  you  no 
whit.  I  will  scourge  you  with  my  tongue  for  your 
offenses,  which  are  noisome  unto  me." 

And  without  doubt  Cornet  Tompkins  had  held  the 
attention  which  he  had  thus  worthily  won,  but  on  a 
sudden  a  shriek  rang  through  the  gallery.  "Woe! 
Woe  and  a  beast  of  horns!"  Through  one  of  the 
long  windows  came  a  shaggy  head  and  a  naked 
body  that  brandished  haggard  arms.  "Come  out! 
And  again  I  say,  come  out!  I  am  the  Angel  Uriel." 
With  one  eager  impulse  the  whole  congregation 
turned  to  him.  "Behold  the  scarlet-colored  beast!" 
he  cried,  pointing  to  the  ruddy  face  of  Cornet  Tomp- 
kins. "I  see  him  with  seven  heads  and  ten  horns. 
I  denounce  him  unto  you.  I  publish  his  doom.  I 
am  the  Angel  Uriel.  Come  out  from  him,  come  out; 
for  his  name  shall  be  called  Magor  Missabib." 

Cornet  Tompkins  was  displeased.  "Who  is  this 
that  blasphemeth  the  Word?"  said  he  with  austere 
dignity.     "Troop  sergeant,  away  with  him !" 


CONCERNING    THE    ANGEL    URIEL   8i 

"I  am  the  Angel  Uriel !"  the  man  screamed,  toss- 
ing his  shaggy  head,  whirling  his  bare  arms  aloft. 
"I  have  the  light  of  the  Word.  Nor  death  nor  hell 
prevail  against  me,  nor  that  great  beast,  that  old 
serpent.  Come  forth  from  the  house  of  Rimmon 
and  I  will  tell  you  a  vision.  Woe!  Woe  and  the 
gnawing  of  tongues !  Come !"  He  leaped  down  to 
the  ground,  and  in  a  weird  voice  crying,  "Come,  and 
I  will  show  you  the  things  that  must  be  hereafter !" 
began  to  climb  up  a  tree. 

And  the  congregation  of  Cornet  Tompkins,  used 
to  seek  the  strangest  ecstasies  of  religion,  eager  as 
the  Athenians  for  some  new  thing,  streamed  out 
after  him.  Vainly  Cornet  Tompkins  cried  to  them 
not  to  follow  one  possessed  of  devils.  Their  minds 
were  in  turmoil.  When  men  were  all  equal  and  as 
good  as  the  gentry,  what  might  not  be  true?  It  was 
an  age  of  many  a  wild  creed,  and  many  a  man 
awaited  eagerly  a  new  revelation.  But  Cornet 
Tompkins,  wroth  for  his  unspoken  sermon,  cried 
out:  "Sergeant  Bunce,  commit  this  man  of  Belial 
into  ward !" 

The  true  Puritan  temper  that  made  each  man  free 
to  preach  his  own  faith  knew  nothing  of  such  dis- 
cipline yet.  The  sergeant  stood  stiff.  "I  am  a  poor 
deacon  of  the  Lord,"  said  he,  "and  I  will  lay  no 
hands  upon  one  who  comes  in  His  name,"  and  with 
that  he,  too,  went  off  to  hear  of  the  vision. 

Cornet  Tompkins  was  left  with  hardly  two  or 
three  gathered  together.     He  came  down  from  his 


82  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

chair  and  looked  moodily  at  the  scene  without. 
There,  high  in  a  tree,  like  some  strange  bird  of 
legend,  the  barebacked  man  swayed  to  and  fro, 
screaming.  It  was  a  lurid,  fantastic  dream  he  had 
to  tell,  made  up  of  scraps  from  the  apocalypse  and 
the  prophets  of  denunciation,  grotesquely  twisted  to 
suit  the  place  and  the  time.  But  it  was  burning  with 
something  of  a  madman's  faith,  and  it  awed  peasant 
and  soldiery.    They  gazed  at  him  in  earnest. 

But  Cornet  Tompkins  groaned  as  he  thought  of 
what  they  had  lost.  "Verily,  this  is  an  age  of  false 
prophets,"  said  Cornet  Tompkins,  with  shaking 
head,  "and  he  hath  seven  devils."  He  looked  upon 
Joan  Normandy  and  the  one  or  two  that  preferred 
sanity  in  their  devotions  who  were  left  him,  humbly 
expectant  still.  "To  your  tents,  oh  ye  people  of  God. 
Let  us  pray  that  the  truth  may  be  made  known." 

Now  Joan  Normand)-',  as  she  was  going  out,  came 
upon  Colonel  Stow.  She  gave  him  one  swift  look  of 
surprise  and  hurried  on.  But  Colonel  Stow,  smil- 
ing blandly,  lounged  into  the  gallery  and  there  let 
fall  a  letter  upon  a  window  ledge.  He  was  unseen, 
for  of  those  left  Cornet  Tompkins  was  coming  down 
the  gallery,  his  head  bowed  and  wagging  in  mourn- 
ing for  his  spoiled  sermon,  and  Lucinda  was  waiting 
for  him  with  an  unkind  smile. 

"I  fear  your  soldiers  have  heard  you  preach  be- 
|fore,  sir,"  said  she. 

Cornet  Tompkins  breathed  heavily — his  trade  was 
sermons,  not  repartee — and  glared  at  her,  and  she 


CONCERNING   THE    ANGEL    URIEL  83 

laughed.  Then,  as  he  passed  her,  she  saw  Colonel 
Stow.  But  Colonel  Stow,  save  for  one  swift  glance 
that  spoke,  made  no  account  of  her,  nor  laughed. 
He  approached  Cornet  Tompkins  with  a  grave  sym- 
pathy. "Sir,"  says  he,  "you  despoil  me  of  ,a  refresh- 
ment I  am  come  to  hear  the  spirit  move  you,  and 
you  make  me  less  sound  than  a  sucking  dove.  You 
promise  me  bread  and  give  me  less  than  a  stone." 

Cornet  Tompkins  turned  upon  him  with  a  stony 
stare.  "Mock  not,"  he  said  in  a  hollow  voice,  "mock 
not,  that  ye  be  not  mocked." 

His  extreme  discomfiture  moved  Colonel  Stow  to 
pity.  "Sir,"  says  he  gravely,  "you  do  me  wrong.  I 
am  come  but  now  to  hear  you,  and  I  find  naught  to 
hear.    Prithee,  what  prevents?"' 

Cornet  Tompkins  clutched  him  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  to  a  window.  "That  prevents,  sir."  He  pointed 
to  the  weird,  half-naked  creature  yelling  from  the 
boughs,  "That  prevents.  That  demoniac.  They 
are  all  gone  after  false  prophets,  and  have  no  mind 
for  the  truth." 

Colonel  Stow  looked  long.  The  gentleman  was 
even  more  surprising  than  he  had  hoped.  But  he 
preserved  a  great  gravity  and  shook  his  head.  "I 
like  it  not,"  said  he.  "I  like  it  not,"  and  shook  his 
head  again.    "I  suspect  him  much." 

"Sir,  I  suspect  him  of  the  devil!"  cried  Cornet 
Tompkins. 

"I  suspect  him  of  playing  the  devil,  which  is 
worse." 


84  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Cornet  Tompkins  gasped.  "Who  would  play  the 
devil  but  one  mad?" 

"I  suspect  him  less  mad  than  he  would  seem." 

Cornet  Tompkins  opened  his  mouth,  and  in  that 
state  tried  to  smile.  It  was  impressive.  "Sir,"  says 
he,  "this  is  a  precious  thought." 

"Look  you,"  Colonel  Stow  grew  more  earnest. 
"What  is  his  errand?  Why  should  he  come  here? 
Why  seek  you  out?" 

"Sir,"  says  Cornet  Tompkins,  melancholy  again, 
"  'tis  plain  the  devil  would  put  me  to  shame." 

"I  doubt  the  devil  wears  a  King's  coat  when  he  Is 
at  home,"  quoth  Colonel  Stow.  "Sir,  I  see  malig- 
nancy here.  Take  heed  that  he  does  no  work  of 
treason,  ay,  that  he  bears  no  missive  from  malig- 
nants." 

Cornet  Tompkins  was  uplifted.  "Sir,  you  say 
well!"  he  cried.  "You  are  of  a  godly  understand- 
ing.   I  will  take  guard.  Yea,  I  will  search  him  out." 

"You  will  do  well,  sir,"  said  Colonel  Stow  with 
a  grave  enthusiasm,  "Search  everywhere  that  he 
hath  been.  I  wish  you  well  in  it."  So,  well  content, 
they  parted.  But  when  Cornet  Tompkins  meditated 
upon  his  search,  he  could  not  think  the  barebacked 
gentleman  had  been  anywhere  save  at  a  window  and 
up  a  tree. 

Away  from  the  house,  behind  the  hedge  of  roses, 
Colonel  Stow  found  Lucinda.  She  gave  him  her 
hand  with  a  smile.  "Pray,  how  much  are  you  in 
this?" 


CONCERNING    THE    ANGEL    URIEL  85 

• 

"Nay,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  "I  only  felt  the  gentle- 
man of  no  coat  was  made  for  Jehoiada.  At  least  I 
see  no  other  use  in  him.  Oh,  'tis  so.  Jehoiada  dis- 
likes him  a  merveille.  I  think  him  most  wholesome 
for  Jehoiada.  But  he  is  to  me  no  more  than  a  con- 
venience.    Madame,  will  you  ride  to-night?" 

"To-night?"  Her  eyes  glowed.  "Oh,  you  are 
quick.    How,  then?    What  of  the  Puritans?" 

"I  rely  upon  Jehoiada  to  abolish  himself.  'Tis 
the  best  deed  the  poor  man  could  do.  Make  no 
parade  of  going,  madame.  Have  only  your  jewels 
and  such  small  things  to  hand.  We  can  take  but 
your  mother  and  you.  And  here  must  be  no  more 
words.    We  are  foes  before  the  world." 

Lucinda  laughed  deliciously.  "I  like  to  play  with 
the  world,"  she  said. 

Meanwhile  Cornet  Tompkins  had  found  upon  the 
window  ledge  a  letter  that  gave  his  heart  delight. 
He  was  consoled  for  the  lost  sermon  and  all  the  tri- 
umph of  the  barebacked  gentleman.  But  his  sudden 
swift  desire  to  catch  this  last  was  foiled,  for  the 
barebacked  gentleman,  who  had  been  for  some  while 
speaking  with  tongues  not  his  own,  with  no  more 
warning  hurled  himself  out  of  the  tree  and  rushed 
wildly  away,  screaming  that  he  was  hunting  Sathan- 
as.  In  which  dangerous  chase  none  then  followed 
him,  so  much  alarm  had  he  made.  But  presently 
after,  he  came  again,  and  for  half  a  generation  there 
was  in  Stoke  and  Weston  Turberville  (you  may  read 
of  it  in  the  pamphlets)  a  sect  which  prophesied  by 


86  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

the  name  of  the  Angel  Uriel,  and  for  his  greater 
glory  were  scant  of  clothes,  till  Major  General  Fleet- 
wood, a  person  of  orderly  mind,  laid  hands  on  them 
and  compelled  them  into  prison  or  coats.  For  the 
which,  despite  threats,  the  angel  showed  no  indig- 
nation. 


CHAPTER    TEN 

CORNET  TOMPKINS   SNAPS   AT  A   SHADOW 

COLONEL  STOW  came  out  from   his  father 
something  grave.     His  father  had  omitted  to 
wish  him  joy ;  had  also  behaved  with  levity. 

"Ay,  ay;  a  man  will  go  when  the  woman  calls. 
And  I  should  like  you  less  if  you  did  not  hear  her. 
.  .  .  Ay,  a  lad  ought  to  be  amusing.  .  .  .  And 
so  you'll  be  for  the  King.  With  as  fair  reason  as 
most,  indeed.  .  .  .  Oons,  there  is  wisdom  in  this 
war.    ..." 

It  seemed  to  Colonel  Stow  that  some  emotion 
would  have  been  in  better  taste.  He  went  with 
solemn  zeal  to  inspect  the  work  of  Alcibiade  and 
Matthieu-Marc,  who  had  business  concerning  horses 
and  saddles  that  was  of  importance,  but  needed 
darkness  rather  than  light. 

The  pervading  mystery  of  it  completed  the  alarm 
of  Joan  Normandy,  suspicious  already  of  the  in- 
iquity of  Colonel  Royston  and  of  Colonel  Stow's 
visit  to  the  ministrations  of  Cornet  Tompkins.  When 
Colonel  Stow,  desiring  to  contemplate  peace,  came 
to  sit  beside  her  in  the  porch,  she  received  him  with 
eyes  of  war. 

87 


88  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"You  are  required  to  love  your  enemies,"  Colonel 
Stow  admonished  her,  "and  for  mere  dignity  you 
should  smile  at  them,"  which  he  duly  did. 

She  was  no  better  pleased.  "I  could  like  you 
better  if  you  were  an  open  enemy,"  she  cried. 

"But  it  would  be  less  amusing  for  me,"  Colonel 
Stow  protested  mildly. 

"At  least  I  should  not  have  to  despise  you  and 
myself." 

"I  can  not  conceive  that  we  are  so  much  alike. 
Pray,  despise  me  alone;  you  will  find  it  less  an  efTort. 
More  just,  also.  For  what,  after  all,  have  you  to  do 
with  me?" 

Her  cheeks  were  suddenly  scarlet.  "Ah!"  It  was 
like  a  cry  of  pain.  "Ah,  I  would  that  I  had  never 
seen  you !" 

"It  flatters  me  that  I  should  thus  deeply  affect 
you.  But  all  is  well.  To-morrow  you  can  believe 
that  I  have  never  lived." 

"You  are  going,  then !"  she  cried  angrily. 

"Your  manner  scarce  Invites  me  to  stay,"  Colonel 
Stow  remarked. 

She  flung  out  her  hand  to  him  in  hot  impatience. 
"Oh,  Is  all  life  a  jeer  and  a  cheat  with  you?  Can 
you  not  be  true  to  yourself?" 

"I  do  not  understand  the  occasion  of  this  homily," 
said  Colonel  Stow  with  dignity. 

Joan  Normandy  gave  something  of  a  sneering 
laugh.  "Oh,  you  are  very  noble !  And  you  sham  a 
friendship  with  our  officer  to  tell  him  lies  and  cheat 


TOMPKINS  SNAPS  AT  A  SHADOW    89 

him  again.  I  thought  even  malignants  kept  their 
honor.    But  you — " 

"Perhaps  I  may  be  some  judge  of  a  soldier's 
honor,  too,"  said  Colonel  Stow  coldly.  "But  if  you 
have  such  a  kindness  for  Jehoiada,  child,  go  tell  him 
I  am  cheating  him." 

She  turned  upon  him,  gray  eyes  flaming  fierce. 
"You  know  that  I  can  not!  And  I  ought!  And  I 
hate  you !"  she  cried.  "Oh,  it  is  mean  in  you !"  and 
she  started  up  and  sped  to  the  house. 

Colonel  Stow  made  figures  in  the  ground  with  his 
heel  and  contemplated  them  gravely.  To  him  thus 
engaged  came  Colonel  Royston.  "Do  you  meditate 
upon  your  own  virtues,  Jerry?" 

Colonel  Stow  looked  up.  "On  the  contrary," 
said  he. 

As  that  day  waned  to  sunset,  Lucinda  felt  strange 
forces  working  about  her.  The  troopers  were  busy 
with  horses  and  arms.  Cornet  Tompkins,  whom  she 
was  at  some  pains  to  observe,  went  with  exultation 
in  his  gait  and  mysterious  scripture  upon  his  lips, 
as  thus:  "Troop  major,  of  new  powder  to  each 
man  a  flask  full.  Nay,  I  will  put  a  hook  in  their 
mouths.  See  to  it  that  the  carbine  locks  be  spanned. 
Verily,  I  will  eat  fat.  Verily,  the  Lord  is  against 
thee,  oh  Gog."  Lucinda  was  puzzled.  It  was  hard 
in  such  spiritual  emotions  to  find  the  practical  hand 
of  Colonel  Stow.  And  all  the  day  long  Cornet 
Tompkins,  bent  upon  a  map  of  the  shire,  muttered 
more  mysteries.   "Moab  shall  be  my  wash-pot   Over 


90  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Edom  shall  I  cast  out  my  shoe.  Alack,  Gog.  Why 
tarry  the  wheels  of  his  chariots,  quo'  she.  Unto 
every  man  a  damsel  or  two.  'Ha,  ha,'  said  I  to  my 
soul,  'ha,  ha.'    I  behold  a  wailing  in  Babylon." 

Not  till  the  twilight,  not  till  the  troopers  were 
mounting,  he  sought  out  Lucinda  for  her  punish- 
ment. She  was  in  her  mother's  withdrawing-room. 
He  ground  his  heels  into  the  white  Bagdad  carpet. 
"Woman,"  says  he,  his  nose  shining  with  emotion, 
"thou  hast  kicked  against  the  pricks,  and  art  full  of 
wickedness  even  to  the  brim.  I,  Jehoiada,  am  ap- 
pointed to  cast  thee  down.  Go  to.  Humble  thyself. 
Learn  not  to  mock  at  the  children  of  light.  I  have 
thy  naughty  paramour  his  letter,  and  this  night  he 
shall  taste  the  bread  of  affliction." 

Lucinda  was  white  in  alarm.  This  was  no  sign  of 
deliverance,  but  a  new  danger.  "I  have  had  no 
letter!"  she  cried. 

Cornet  Tompkins  allowed  himself  to  laugh.  "Ha, 
the  peril  of  the  Amalekite  hurts  thee  in  a  tender 
part.  Nay,  woman,  thou  hast  no  letter,  for  I  have 
it — I,  Jehoiada,  the  cornet  of  the  Lord.  Would  that 
I  had  the  vile  fellow  that  brought  it.  But  it  suffices. 
Thy  portion  of  woe  is  assured.  Harken — "  and  he 
read  with  mouthing  sarcasm  these  surpriseful 
words : 

I  must  see  you  once  yet  before  I  go.  Ride  out  to- 
night to  the  Monk's  pool  at  Saunderton.  Slip  away 
from  the  Roundhead  villains  at  sundov/n  and  I  will 


TOMPKINS  SNAPS  AT  A  SHADOW    91 

await  you.  Once  with  me,  have  no  more  fear  of  the 
Roundheads.  I  have  half  a  troop  of  Goring's  horse 
to  my  back.  They  will  watch  over  us,  and  we  shall 
laugh  at  your  sausage-nosed  Puritan — 

Here  Cornet  Tompkins  stopped  to  ejaculate: 
"Oh,  Gog,  Gog,  verily,  I  will  leave  but  the  sixth 
part  of  thee !"  and  he  snorted  at  Lucinda  and  went 
on: 

Nay,  come  with  me,  my  life,  and  you  shall  be  free 
of  him  and  his  kind  for  ever. 

Thy  true  lover, 
From  the  Bird  in  Hand  G.  B. 

At  Chinnor. 

(This  last,  in  the  warmer  style,  being  Colonel 
Royston's  private  effort  to  add  probability  to  the 
chilly  swain  of  Colonel  Stow's  design. ) 

Cornet  Tompkins  grinned  triumphant,  and  his 
face  shone  like  a  ruddy  moon.  Lucinda  was  troubled. 
The  letter  was  truly  mad  enough  to  be  Gilbert 
Bourne's  own.  She  was  mightily  angry  with  him. 
That  he  should  confuse  the  plans  of  Colonel  Stow 
and  keep  her  still  a  prisoner  to  this  maddening 
Puritan  soldier  was  an  infamous  folly.  She  flamed 
at  Cornet  Tompkins  in  an  unlovely  fierceness,  like  a 
trapped  beast,  and  he  grinned  the  more.  "Verily, 
verily,  the  iron  enters  into  thee  and  saws  thy  soul 
asunder.  This  it  is  to  wanton  with  Amalekites." 
He  flaunted  the  letter  before  her,  and  Lucinda  was 


92  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

suddenly  white  and  bit  her  lip  on  a  cry.  For  she 
saw  the  writing,  and  it  was  not  by  Mr.  Bourne. 
Cornet  Tompkins  mistook  her  emotion.  "Oh,  thou 
naughty  member!"  he  cried.  "Shameless  art  thou 
in  thy  affections  for  this  Assyrian !  Oh,  Aholah  and 
Aholibah !" 

Lucinda  snatched  her  fan  from  the  table  and  with 
it  slashed  at  his  eyes.  "That  is  the  woman's  answer, 
fellow !"  she  cried.    "Go,  get  the  man's !" 

Cornet  Tompkins,  half  blind  with  undesired  tears, 
stepped  back  unsteadily.  "Wanton,  wanton,  I  go!" 
he  cried,  "and  thou  shalt  see  thy  lover  in  chains,  yea, 
in  fetters  of  iron,  till  I  hang  him  high  as  Haman 
before  thy  threshold  for  an  abomination  and  a  spy !" 
Cornet  Tompkins  loved  a  rounded  sentence.  He 
wiped  away  his  tears  and  strode  with  dignity  to  the 
door. 

Lucinda  turned  to  see  her  mother  crying  gently, 
and  made  an  impatient  ejaculation  at  such  folly. 
"Yon — ^you  never  valued  him,  Lucinda,"  said  my 
Lady  Weston,  sobbing  the  more.  "But — ^but  I  would 
I  were  his  mother."  She  referred  to  Mr.  Bourne. 
Lucinda  was  not  concerned  in  such  fruitless  emo- 
tions. While  she  was  hurrying  to  the  window  to 
know  what  meant  the  noise  of  the  troopers'  parade, 
two  stalked  in  and  without  a  word  sat  themselves 
down  on  either  side  the  door.  Lucinda  had  hardly 
turned  upon  them  before  a  word  of  command  rang 
without,  and  she  saw  the  mounted  company  wheel 
and  swing  away  through  the  dusk.     Cornet  Tomp- 


TOMPKINS  SNAPS  AT  A  SHADOW     93 

kins  took  due  strength  to  deal  with  that  half  troop 
of  Goring's  horse.  Then  Lucinda  made  to  run  out, 
but  one  of  her  guards  rose  up  against  her.  "Woman, 
we  are  bidden  guard  you  in  our  presence,  and 
though  you  be  an  evil  sight  to  a  man  of  faith,  yet 
will  we  do  it." 

Lucinda  recoiled  all  quivering  with  impatience. 
The  other  trooper  looked  at  her  and  groaned,  and 
shook  his  head  and  groaned.  "It  were  well  to  com- 
fort our  souls  with  a  savory  exercise,"  said  he,  and 
in  a  gloomy  nasal  tone  began  to  recite  the  mystic 
parts  of  Jeremiah.  You  conceive  how  he  soothed 
the  straining  nerves  of  Lucinda. 

But  the  dull  sound  of  Cornet  Tompkins'  horse- 
men had  hardly  died  away  when  there  was  a  swift 
scurry  over  the  turf,  and  even  as  the  recitation  of 
Jeremiah  was  cut  off  and  its  giver  moved  swiftly  to 
the  window,  Colonel  Stow  came  in,  flushed  with  in- 
genuous agitation.  "Good  sir,  give  me  word!  Is 
Cornet  Tompkins  within  ?"  says  he  breathless  to  the 
first  trooper,  who  shook  a  solemn  head.  "Oh,  luck- 
less day!"  cried  Colonel  Stow.  "His  troop  major, 
then,  or  a  sergeant?" 

"Brother,  they  be  gone  out  to  capture  an  Amale- 
kite,  and  we  only  are  left.   Is  it  a  matter  of  war?" 

"Alack,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  who  was  swaying  a 
little  upon  his  toes,  "I  fear  you  may  think  it  so,"  and 
as  he  spoke  let  drive  at  the  man's  chin,  and,  whirling 
round,  met  his  comrade's  rush  with  another  shoulder 
blow.     The  first  was  hardly  fallen  before  Colonel 


94  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Royston  was  upon  him  and  had  a  noose  round  his 
arms  and  a  kerchief  in  his  mouth.  Swift  and  neat 
likewise  Colonel  Stow  dealt  with  the  other.  My 
Lady  Weston  screamed  her  fright,  and  Lucinda  chid 
her  angrily  to  silence.  Fitly  trussed  and  gagged, 
those  two  hapless  troopers  were  propped  up  against 
the  door-posts  to  contemplate  each  other. 

Colonel  Stow,  flushed  still,  but  now  purely  calm, 
made  his  bow  to  my  Lady  Weston.  "Such  affairs 
must  always  give  pain  to  persons  of  sensibility,  my 
lady;  but  I  trust  we  have  not  been  indelicate.  Pray, 
will  you  ride?  Time  is  short."  Then  Lucinda 
whirled  her  mother  away  to  cloak,  and  as  she  passed 
Colonel  Stow  she  held  out  her  hand.  His  lips  ca- 
ressed it,  and  one  of  the  hapless  troopers  was  heard 
to  groan. 

With  him  Colonel  Royston  remonstrated.  "Be- 
lieve me,  you  are  less  hurt  than  you  suppose,  and 
you  should  be  more  grateful  than  you  look.  I  have 
never  seen  a  neater  surprise.  It  should  be  an  educa- 
tion to  you  in  tactics — which  most  men  only  learn  by 
death — an  expensive  method  I  would  not  urge  upon 
you,  unless  you  would  die  for  pure  philanthropy." 

"Come  away,  George,"  said  Colonel  Stow  gruffly, 
watching  the  two  helpless  men.  His  friend's  man- 
ners displeased  him  at  whiles. 

Out  in  the  gathering  dark  Alcibiade  and  Mat- 
thieu-Marc  waited  with  four  good  horses  beside 
their  own.  Colonel  Stow  swept  a  swift  glance  over 
the  sky.    It  was  clear  enough  to  find  the  stars  if  need 


TOMPKINS  SNAPS  AT  A  SHADOW    95 

were.     He  laughed.    "Night  and  a  ride  through  the 
enemy's  quarters.   What  more  should  a  man  want?" 

"I  want  less,"  Colonel  Royston  admitted.  "A 
woman  or  so  less." 

Wherewith  the  women  came,  cloaked  heavily, 
each  with  a  large  and  weighty  casket.  Colonel  Stow 
took  Lucinda.  My  Lady  Weston  was  crying  still, 
which  Colonel  Royston  observing,  "Nay,  my  lady, 
'tis  hard  enough  to  quit  home,"  says  he  gently 
enough.  Anything  of  the  mother  would  always 
mellow  him.  "But  you  should  count  on  coming 
again  when  these  rascals  are  beaten." 

"I  do  not  care  where  I  go,"  said  she  feebly.  "It  is 
Mr.  Bourne." 

"Oh!     Mr.   Bourne  is  more  safe  than  yourself.  * 
That  matter  of  the  letter  was  a  ruse  of  ours  to  get 
the  Roundheads  away." 

She  stared  at  him,  endeavoring  to  grasp  this.  She 
was  not  quick  of  wit.  Then  she  gave  it  up  with  a. 
sigh.  Turning  to  her  horse,  she  saw  Lucinda  in 
Colonel  Stow's  arms  as  he  swung  her  to  the  saddle. 
"I  wish  it  were  Mr.  Bourne,"  she  murmured  to  her- 
self, and  was  more  lachrymose. 

Colonel  Royston  was  not  sure  that  he  differed. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

COLONEL  ROYSTON  DESERTS  A  LADY 

THE  sky  was  darkly  gray,  set  with  rare  stars. 
They  rode  through  murmurous  gloom.  Warm 
wind  of  the  passion  of  spring  moved  about  them. 
Close  to  the  strength  of  that  square  shoulder,  breath- 
ing the  strange  throbbing  scents  of  the  night, 
Lucinda  smiled  and  her  bosom  was  quick.  .  .  . 
Life  was  good.  Life  was  good.  She  had  conquered, 
she  and  the  man.  He  had  broken  all  her  chains,  he 
made  all  bow  to  her.  She  felt  in  her  the  wild  force 
of  the  world  beat  free.  ...  It  surged  in  Colonel 
Stow,  too.  Every  nerve  in  him  was  aware  and  glad 
of  her  eager  womanhood.  He  had  won  the  best  of 
life.  .  .  .  He  never  knew  of  the  white  face  behind 
a  window  of  his  home  that  yearned  after  him 
through  the  dark,  through  tears. 

From  the  heavy  gloom  of  the  lane  they  came  sud- 
denly to  blither  air,  to  the  wide  freedom  of  the  vale. 
All  about  them  the  dewy,  flower-studded  meadows 
bore  a  strange  ethereal  light.  Lucinda  gave  a  little 
glad  cry,  like  a  happy  child.   Then,  as  Colonel  Stow 

96 


COLONEL  ROYSTON  DESERTS  A  LADY    97 

turned  to  her,  she  saw  the  flash  of  his  eyes  and  was 
breathless.  "Oh,  it  is  life,  it  is  life  with  you,"  she 
murmured. 

"I  live  to  make  your  life,"  he  said. 

"I — I  did  not  know  I  could  feel  this.  ...  I  am 
glad,  glad !  It  is  to  have  all  the  power  of  the  world 
in  me." 

"I  am  no  man  without  you.  And  you  without  me 
no  woman.    Now — now  we  are  lords  of  life." 

She  laughed  a  little.  "You  and  I,"  ,and  laughed 
again  gladly.  They  were  riding  close  as  troopers  in 
the  charge.  Her  shoulder  touched  his  lightly,  and 
again.  "Oh,  the  night  and  the  joy  of  the  night!" 
she  cried.  He  could  see  the  surge  of  her  bosom,  the 
silvery  cloud  of  her  breath,  and  her  lips  dark  in  the 
white  comeliness  beneath  her  hood. 

"Sure,  this  is  our  birth  night." 

"All's  new  indeed.  Yes,  and  all  life  is  for  us. 
Ah,  what  does  a  maid  know?" 

"Nay,  not  even  what  she  hath  to  give." 

"And  you,"  she  turned  upon  him  in  a  quick  im- 
pulse, then  gave  a  queer,  scornful  laugh.  "Do  you 
know  naught  of  yourself?  'Tis  you  make  my  heart 
wild — you!  You!  You  are  strong;  you  are  sure. 
You  force  things  to  your  will — lightly,  lightly,  and 
laugh."  Swiftly  she  flung  her  hand  to  him,  and  as 
he  gripped  it  and  crushed  it  against  his  lips :  "Oh, 
ay,"  she  said  in  a  voice  of  miserable  mirth.  "Oh, 
ay,  'tis  yours." 

"If  I  take  I  give,"  he  said. 


98  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

She  looked  at  him  while  they  rode  far.  Then  she 
caught  his  hand  and  kissed  it  fiercely.  "So.  It  is 
so,"  she  muttered.  Then  with  a  wild  Laugh:  "Oh, 
there  is  power  in  us — power!" 

"You  are  born  for  that."  He  gripped  her  hand 
till  she  bit  her  lip  for  the  pain.  "Woman,  woman  of 
my  need." 

"Yes!  Ah,  yes!  All  the  world  is  yes  to  us  now. 
There  is  naught  denied.  Oh,  you  master  me,  and  I 
am  master  of  all  in  you  I" 

He  leaned  out  of  his  saddle,  he  flung  his  arm 
about  her,  and  she  swayed  lithe  and  glad  in  the  hard 
strength  of  it.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  a  strange 
smile. 

"There  is  match  light  on  the  right  front,"  said 
Colonel  Royston. 

Colonel  Stow  let  her  go  easily.  "Rein  up,"  he 
said,  and  peered  along  Royston's  pointing  arm. 
Tiny  specks  of  yellow  played  will-o'-the-wisp  far 
off.  "They  fling  pickets  wide  at  Aylesbury,"  he  said 
calmly,  and  looked  up  at  the  stars.  It  was  grass 
country  and  studded  with  trees,  but  open  on  either 
hand.  "Take  the  women,  George.  Bear  away  to 
the  south.  Alcibiade!"  But  while  Royston,  with  a 
sharp,  "By  the  left  and  with  spur!"  hurried  my  lady 
and  Lucinda  before  him,  and  set  their  horses  to  a 
sharper  pace,  the  specks  of  yellow  were  gathering, 
and  there  came  the  sound  of  steel. 

"Is  there  danger?"  said  Lucinda  under  her 
breath. 


COLONEL  ROYSTON  DESERTS  A  LADY    99 

Colonel  Royston  laughed.  "With  a  lady,  madame, 
there  is  always  danger." 

"I  have  no  fear,  sir,"  she  cried  angrily. 

"That  is  why  you  are  dangerous,"  said  Colonel 
Royston. 

"Is  Colonel  Stow  in  danger?"  she  insisted,  im- 
perious. 

"If  you  had  never  thought  of  him,  it  might  have 
been  kind,"  said  Colonel  Royston  sourly.  "To  think 
of  him  now  is  rriere  impediment."  Lucinda  looked 
at  him  long. 

It  is  likely  that  Colonel  Royston,  being  a  friend, 
would  have  borne  hard  on  any  woman  who  dared  an 
affection  for  Colonel  Stow,  and  this  woman  heated 
his  blood  all  out  of  reason.  With  amused  disgust  he 
did  his  best  for  her,  drove  her  on  swift  over  the 
meadows,  down  hill  toward  Ford  brook.  There  was 
need. 

Challenges  rang  out  behind  them.  The  yellow 
gleams  of  the  musketeers'  matches  were  multiplied. 
They  heard  the  mingled  din  of  a  troop  of  horse. 
"I'gad,"  muttered  Colonel  Royston  with  a  doleful 
chuckle,  "we'll  have  turned  out  the  whole  com- 
mand." And  indeed  the  meadows  were  aflame  far 
and  wide.  There  was  a  storm  of  shouting,  orders 
and  oaths;  then,  amid  all  the  stars  of  yellow  light, 
the  blue  flash  of  powder  and  volley  on  volley  of 
musketry.  Colonel  Royston  made  up  his  mind. 
"God  be  with  you,"  says  he,  "for  I  shall  not."  And 
he  reined  up  sharp  and  went  back  for  his  friend. 


lOO  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

But  before  he  had  gone  far,  while  the  musketry 
still  raged  furiously,  he  came  upon  Colonel  Stow 
and  Alcibiade  riding  at  easy  speed.  "En  avant, 
George,"  says  Colonel  Stow  with  a  laugh.  "They 
will  be  engaged  some  while  yet.  Trees  never  sur- 
render, and  there  is  plenty  of  match." 

Colonel  Royston  understood.  It  was  a  proved  de- 
vice of  the  German  wars.  A  few  links  of  match, 
close  twisted  tow,  tied  to  tree  boughs  and  lit,  were 
as  good  by  night  as  a  battalion  of  musketry.  The 
Puritan  picket,  daring  not  advance  on  such  a  force, 
was  still  firing  heavily. 

"Faith,"  says  Colonel  Royston,  "I'll  never  more 
be  such  a  fool  as  to  suppose  you  need  me,  Jerry," 
and  they  drew  up  to  the  women. 

Lucinda  turned  quick  on  Colonel  Stow,  and  he 
smiled  to  her.  Then  she  laughed  out.  "Oh,  I  am  a 
fool  to  fear,"  said  she.  "And  yet,  and  yet  there  was 
a  gallant  gentleman  here  feared  for  you,  too.  But  I 
should  be  wiser." 

"You  flatter  me,  madame,"  said  Colonel  Royston 
bluntly.  "I  had  not  begun  to  fear.  But  I  love  him 
better  than  I  love  you." 

"And  I  like  you  for  that,"  said  Lucinda,  and 
looked  at  Colonel  Royston  for  the  second  time. 

"But  he'll  soon  be  of  another  faith,"  said  Colonel 
Stow,  then  suddenly  turned  with  his  ear  to  the  wind. 
"Hark!" 

The  rattle  of  musketry  had  fallen  fainter,  and 


COLONEL  ROYSTON  DESERTS  A  LADY  loi 

now  it  was  wrapped  in  another  sound — singing,  a 
swelling  chant. 

"Indeed,  this  is  a  glorious  victory  for  a  Te 
Deum,"  said  Lucinda  through  mirth. 

"That  is  not  the  picket,  but  an  army,"  quoth  Roy- 
ston.    "Silent!" 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  Slow,  majestic,  deep- 
throated,  it  was  borne  down  wind : 

All  people  that  on  earth  do  dwell 

Sing  to  the  Lord  with  cheerful  voice; 

Him  serve  with  mirth,  His  praise  forthtell, 
Come  ye  before  Him  and  rejoice. 

Know  that  the  Lord  is  God  indeed, 
Without  our  aid  He  did  us  make; 

We  are  His  flock.  He  doth  us  feed, 
And  for  His  sheep  He  doth  us  take. 

The  two  soldiers  looked  at  each  other  with  an  un- 
spoken question.  Colonel  Royston  had  heard  that 
psalm  rise  from  the  sodden  plain  of  Breitenfeld 
when  Gustavus  smote  the  Catholic  army  to  death. 
Now  it  came  from  his  foes. 

Colonel  Stow  drew  close  to  Lucinda  again.  She 
had  no  fear.  Lithe  and  gay  she  rode,  and  often  she 
smiled,  and  often  spoke  to  him  softly.  So  they  came 
through  the  night,  past  ghostly  villages  and  church 
towers  that  loomed  in  mid-air.  With  wet  feet  they 
made  across  the  dark  ford  below  Waterperry  and 


I02  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

climbed  the  shadowed  lane  till  the  wind  was  cold 
from  the  hills  and  the  moon  rose  close  upon  dawn. 
A  faint  blue  light  came  over  all,  and  through  it  they 
moved  weirdly,  like  creatures  of  dream. 

My  Lady  Weston  was  swaying  in  her  saddle  as 
they  rose  by  the  steep  track  to  Shotover,  and  Colonel 
Royston,  gentle  enough  with  her,  gave  her  the  stay 
of  his  arm.  But  Lucinda  rode  light.  She  was  pale 
indeed,  but  her  eyes  shone  like  stars  in  a  windy  sky. 
Before  they  were  over  the  hilltop  the  dawn  was 
white  and  the  moon's  crescent  no  more  than  a  pale 
glimmer  of  cloud  in  its  midst.  Lucinda  turned  to 
the  call  of  Colonel  Stow's  eyes.  But  a  shadow  came 
over  her  face,  and  she  sighed.  "I  did  not  want  the 
day,"  she  said. 

Far  below,  caught  in  a  girdle  of  white  mist,  lay 
Oxford,  walls  and  spires  rising  through  lucid  air,  a 
city  wrought  in  silver. 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

COLONEL   STOW   MAKES   A    MISTAKE 

/'^XFORD  was  strangely  alive.  The  undergrad- 
— ^  uates  had  been  driven  from  their  colleges  to 
make  room  for  loyal  souls  who  could  buy  a  lodging 
dear.  The  quadrangle  of  Merton  was  gay  with  the 
Queen's  ladies.  Christ  Church  cloisters  rang  with 
the  quarrels  of  the  King's  Council.  Each  gray  gate- 
way from  Worcester  to  Queen's,  each  sedate  lawn 
and  dark  stair,  glowed  with  the  pomp  of  women, 
echoed  the  statesmanship  of  zealous  men,  clashed 
and  rustled  with  silk  and  steel. 

Oxford  had  the  fashion  and  business  of  a  capital. 
Queen  Henrietta  and  Madame  Saccharissa  devised 
new  stomachers  each  week,  and  my  Lord  Digby 
exhibited  a  pretty  conceit  in  hose.  The  mill  of  the 
King's  mint  rumbled  in  New  Inn.  Some  fragment 
of  Lords  and  Commons,  a  ghost  of  a  parliament, 
met  in  the  Schools  and  played  at  making  laws.  My 
Lord  Keeper  gave  justice  to  silly  loyal  suitors  in  the 
Convocation  House.  Above  all  this  rang  the  real 
note  of  war.  An  ugly  army  of  sakers  and  demi- 
culverins  wore  the  turf  of  Magdalen,  and  their 
swarthy    Italian   gunners   made  a   barrack   of  the 

103 


I04  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

cloister  quadrangle.  Forges  glowed  in  New  College, 
where  the  armorers  wrought  the  pike  heads  anew 
and  struggled  with  the  snaps  and  locks  of  the  cara- 
bines. The  meadows  by  the  Cherwell  were  white 
with  tents.  Tall  pikemen  in  corselet  and  morion, 
little  musketeers,  armorless,  and  like  mushrooms 
under  their  spreading  felt  hats,  blue-coated,  big- 
booted  troopers  swaggered  in  disorderly  array  all 
across  the  High  Street.  Without,  on  the  old  walls 
and  the  new  drawn  lines  of  defense,  the  under- 
graduates labored  with  mattock  and  spade,  grum- 
bling but  perforce,  save  such  as  could  find  twelve 
pence  a  day  to  pay  the  cost  of  the  war. 

Colonel  Royston  spoke  unkind  words  of  this  pie- 
bald town.  As  a  court  he  held  it  mean.  As  a  camp 
he  condemned  it  for  gaudy.  He  desired  leave  to  go 
into  the  country  and  see  the  flowers  grow.  Where- 
by it  happened  that  they  came  into  the  Christ 
Church  meadows  to  see  a  resplendent  throng  tram- 
pling the  fritillarias.  But  Colonel  Royston  would 
not  be  comforted.  "They  look  like  peacocks,"  he 
complained;  "they  sound  like  peacocks.  But  pea- 
cocks have  brains.   I  have  eaten  them  in  Milano." 

Down  a  lane  of  bared  heads  and  curtsies  came 
one  of  picturesque  gait  and  a  garb  of  much  art — 
black  velvet  with  cloth  of  silver.  None  could  have 
answered  a  salute  with  more  grace.  Colonel  Roy- 
ston, erect  as  on  parade,  looked  keenly  at  this  elab- 
orate person ;  he  found  sentimental  eyes  and  a 
narrow  brow.    "I  have  known  kings,"  said  he,  "and 


COLONEL  STOW  MAKES  A  MISTAKE     105 

that  is  not  one."  King  Charles  went  on  through 
his  worshipers.  Colonel  Stow,  it  is  likely,  felt  a 
desire  to  help  him. 

Going  easily  amid  the  loyal  company,  they 
came  upon  one  of  a  southern  splendor.  His  hat  and 
feather  were  of  a  vivid  blue,  and  pale  blue  the  wide 
lace  collar  that  fell  over  his  crimson  coat;  his  crim- 
son hose  ended  in  a  foam  of  lace  that  filled  the  tops 
of  his  walking  boots.  All  this  belonged  to  a  dark, 
lean,  scarred  face. 

"Strozzi !"  said  Colonel  Royston  calmly.  "I 
thought  you  were  hanged." 

The  Italian  smiled.  "So  did  Wallenstein.  And 
now,  having  got  to  hell,  doubtless  he  misses  me. 
But  one  can  not  be  always  obliging.  I  bribed  Wal- 
ter Butler  to  hang  a  Greek  instead." 

"I  never  liked  Butler,"  said  Royston. 

"You  are  quite  right,  my  friend,"  the  Italian 
agreed  pleasantly.  "I  do  not  make  the  world  agree- 
able for  others." 

"How  are  you  damaging  it  here?"  said  Colonel 
Stow. 

"I  am  colonel  in  the  regiment  of  artillery.  And 
what  have  you  the  felicity  to  be,  gentlemen  ?" 

"We  are  ourselves.  Tell  us  what  there  is  a  chance 
to  be." 

The  Italian  looked  at  them  swiftly,  inserted  him- 
self between  them,  and  drew  them  aside.  "My 
friends,"  said  he,  "there  is  a  great  chance  to  be 
nothing.    Look!    You  think  here  is  an  army — " 


io6  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Not  the  least,"  said  Colonel  Royston.  "I  think 
here  is  a  herd." 

"And  a  herd  of  swine,"  quoth  the  Italian,  then 
looked  at  him  with  cunning.  "But  then,  my  dear 
friend,  why  are  you  here?" 

"Strozzi,"  said  Colonel  Royston  sternly,  "we  fight 
for  our  rightful  King." 

"Do  not  talk  imbecilities,"  said  the  Italian.  He 
drew  them  farther  away  from  the  throng,  and  his 
voice  fell.  "You  are  come  to  spy  for  the  others,  eh? 
.  .  ,  Oh,  do  not  play  at  being  angry.  I  have  had 
a  mind  to  do  it  myself." 

"My  dear  Strozzi,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  "you  do  us 
too  much  honor  in  thinking  us  like  yourself." 

The  Italian  shrugged.  "You  might  as  well  be 
frank.    I  would  join  you,  and  I  should  be  some  use." 

"I  am  always  frank  with  you,  Strozzi,"  said 
Colonel  Stow  in  a  tone  of  gentle  reproach,  "because 
I  know  nothing  puzzles  you  so  much.  And  this  is 
the  pure  truth:  We  have  come  to  fight  for  the 
King." 

"Then  you  make  the  mistake  of  a  fool,"  said  the 
Italian,  not  without  satisfaction. 

"This  is  encouraging,"  said  Colonel  Royston 
cheerfully.  "If  we  will  not  be  knaves  we  are  plainly 
fools." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you  would  have  joined  Tilly  after 
Leipslc.  Have  you  not  heard  of  the  battle  in  the 
north  on  the  Marston  Moor?  That  wooden-head 
Rupert  flung  his  army  away,  and  half  England  is 


COLONEL  STOW  MAKES  A  MISTAKE     107 

lost  to  the  King.  Wait  a  little.  We  shall  lose  the 
other  quite  easily." 

The  two  looked  at  each  other.  Here  was  the 
reason  of  that  Puritan  psalm  of  triumph.  "I  wonder 
if  we  haVe  taken  a  wrong  turning,  Jerry,"  said 
Colonel  Royston  aloud,  but  in  his  heart  he  was  won- 
dering how  loyal  Lucinda  would  be  if  she  saw  the 
Puritans  conquering. 

"Bah,  'tis  a  lost  cause,"  said  Strozzi. 

"I  like  it  the  better,"  said  Colonel  Stow.  But 
Colonel  Royston  confessed  himself  of  a  different 
temper. 

While  he  spoke  they  saw  a  man  walking  like 
themselves  apart  from  the  rest.  He  was  a  big  fellow 
in  a  scarlet  coat,  something  sparkish  in  his  dress. 
But  his  hat  was  over  his  brows,  and  his  dark,  hand- 
some face  lined  with  pain.  The  courtier  throng 
was  staring  at  him  and  laughing,  and  flinging  jeers, 
"The  Palatine  looks  for  his  army!  His  Highness 
meditates  new  glory!  Rupert  le  Diable  flees  from 
the  Saints !" 

But  Prince  Rupert  strode  by  the  mockery,  alone, 
unheeding. 

Colonel  Stow  took  a  pace  forward,  drew  himself 
up  and  saluted. 

The  dark  eyes  flashed  at  him.  Then  Prince  Ru- 
pert touched  his  hat  and  strode  on. 

Strozzi  was  laughing.  "You  make  a  mistake,  my 
friend.    The  Palatine  will  never  do  anything." 

"Perhaps  I  like  mistakes,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 


4 
CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

MR.    BOURNE  IS   SORRY 

MY  LADY  WESTON  had  found  lodging  in 
Holywell.  Therein  Colonel  Royston  was  do- 
ing his  best  to  amuse  her  while  Colonel  Stow  sought 
her  daughter.  There  was  a  tiny  garden  girt  with 
gray  stone  that  bore  red  wallflowers,  and  Lucinda 
took  her  ease  in  it.  She  lay  back  in  her  chair  white- 
clad,  and  her  lithe  strength  gave  all  its  grace.  In  a 
rich  glow  the  curls  clustered  about  her  brow.  Bare 
neck  and  shoulder,  darker  than  her  dress,  as  if  a 
mellow  light  fell  about  them,  were  delicately 
wrought,  instinct  with  life. 

"Indeed,  you  have  a  wonder  of  glory  to  give," 
said  Colonel  Stow  in  a  low  voice. 

A  shadow  crossed  her  face.  He  was  perhaps  too 
much  in  the  vein  of  Mr.  Bourne.  But,  "If  I  give,  I 
give  all,"  she  said,  and  her  gay  eyes  challenged  him. 

"I  could  not  take  less." 

"Are  you  strong  enough  to  use  all  of  me?"  she 
laughed. 

"Is  there  a  power  you  have  I  can  not  help?" 

"I  wonder."  She  looked  at  him  long.  "Some- 
io8 


MR.    BOURNE    IS    SORRY  109 

times  it  seems  you  can  set  all  of  me  free  to  be  strong 
and  glad.  The  night — ah,  the  night  was  dear !  But 
it  is  day  now.  And  sometimes — I  wonder — ^there 
are  needs  in  me  you  do  not  give,  and  I  want  more 
than  you."  Colonel  Stow  did  not  understand.  This 
differed  too  vastly  from  the  mood  of  the  night,  and 
the  mood  of  the  night  was  his  always.  He  was  a 
man,  and  simply  made.  More  than  once  in  life  a 
woman's  candor  puzzled  him.  While  she  looked  at 
him  an  innocent  question,  he  was  miserably  grave — 
so  miserable  that  she  broke  out  laughing.  "Sure, 
sir,  you'll  not  bear  it  hard  that  a  woman  should  find 
it  tiresome  to  love  one  man?    'Tis  churlish !" 

Colonel  Stow  endeavored  to  laugh  with  her.  "If 
you  need  another,  I'll  forgive  you,  but  not  myself." 

"I'll  have  no  forgiveness,"  said  she  gaily.  "  'Tis 
as  sour  as  pity.  If  you  can  forgive,  you  can  not  love. 
And  all  I  do  is  right." 

"I  heartily  believe  it,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"Alack,  poor  soul,"  quoth  she. 

"Wherefore  you  will  do  my  will,"  said  Colonel 
Stow  calmly. 

She  laughed  deliciously.  "I  can  love  you  for 
that." 

Before  she  guessed,  he  crushed  her  against  him 
and  kissed  her.     "  'Tis  agreed,"  said  he. 

Her  neck  was  rosy.  There  was  wicked  mirth  in 
her  eyes.  "Indeed,  that  was  timely,"  said  she,  and 
Colonel  Stow  beheld  Mr.  Bourne. 

Mr.  Bourne  was  a  better  man  than  woman.     His 


no  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

shoulders  set  with  a  style.  He  stood  a  fair,  sturdy 
Lad,  sure  of  himself.  "I  had  not  hoped  for  this, 
madame.    It  is  a  rare  delight,  but — " 

"Nay,  I  fear  it  will  be  scarce  that,"  Lucinda  mur- 
mured, with  a  swift,  mischievous  glance  for  Colonel 
Stow. 

"But  I  fear  these  villains  distressed  you  at  Stoke?" 

Lucinda  lay  back  with  one  slight  arm  behind  her 
head.  "If  you  ask  why  I  have  come  here,  sir,  faith, 
I  can  not  tell  you,"  and,  smiling  wickedly,  she  looked 
from  one  man  to  the  other.  "Nay,  it  puzzles  me. 
But  I  think  you  know  each  other's  quality." 

Upon  which  neat  hint  Mr.  Bourne  admitted  the 
existence  of  Colonel  Stow  in  a  brief  bow.  Colonel 
Stow  was  more  polite.  "My  compliments  upon  your 
transfiguration,  sir,"  says  he.  "At  least  you  now 
look  real.  It  is  a  beginning.  We  have  all  to  be  in- 
fants once." 

Mr.  Bourne  flushed  and  glared — and  reverted  to 
Lucinda,  "I  trust  you  have  not  been  in  danger 
through  me,  madame?" 

"I  shall  always  be  glad  you  came  to  me,"  said 
Lucinda  in  a  low  voice,  and  while  Mr.  Bourne 
flushed  again  for  delight  she  smiled  and  looked  up 
at  Colonel  Stow. 

"Indeed,  the  lad  has  helped  us  to  a  night  for 
which  we  must  always  be  grateful,"  said  Colonel 
Stow  with  an  intimate  air. 

"Are  you  so  sure?"  and  he  saw  that  strange  faint 
smile  of  hers. 


MR.    BOURNE    IS    SORRY  in 

"Sir,"  says  Mr.  Bourne  with  some  heat,  "I  have  a 
name,  and  I  would  thank  you  to  call  me  by  it" 

Colonel  Stow  bowed.  "I  could  not  suppose  you 
were  proud  of  it,"  he  explained  politely. 

"For  the  service  you  have  done  Mistress  Weston, 
sir,"  cried  Mr.  Bourne,  much  wroth,  "I  thank  you; 
but—" 

"I  wonder  if  you  will,"  said  Lucinda  softly. 

"It  were,  perhaps,  better,  madame,"  said  Colonel 
Stow,  still  with  his  maddening  air  of  intimacy,  "if 
Mr.  Bourne  stayed  away  from  your  presence  till  he 
grows  up." 

Lucinda  laughed.  Mr.  Bourne,  crimson  and  stam- 
mering, approached  Colonel  Stow,  his  hand  on  his 
sword.  "I  am  sure  my  mother  needs  me  more  than 
you,  gentlemen,"  said  Lucinda  and  fled  away. 

Mr.  Bourne  was  left  confronting  Colonel  Stow, 
breast  almost  upon  breast.  He  was  plainly  in  the  ex- 
treme of  wrath ;  Colonel  Stow  as  plainly  calm. 

"There  must  be  an  explanation  between  us,  sir," 
said  Mr.  Bourne  hoarsely. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  a  little  dull,  Mr.  Bourne." 

"Understand  me,  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Bourne,  tapping 
the  cup  hilt  of  his  sword. 

"Oh,  I  understand  you.  I  wish  you  could  under- 
stand anything  else." 

"I  invite  you  to  a  walk  in  the  meadow,  sir." 

"Soit,"  said  Colonel  Stow  calmly.  "I  assure  you 
we  shall  both  come  back." 

Mr.  Bourne  leading  at  a  high  and  haughty  gait. 


112  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Colonel  Stow  following  with  his  natural  sobriety, 
they  strode  out  of  the  house  and  off  down  Long 
Wall.  From  behind  a  curtained  casement  Lucinda 
watched  them  go,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  joy.  Then 
she  ran  off  to  Colonel  Royston. 

Half  way  down  Long  Wall  Mr.  Bourne  turned  on 
Colonel  Stow.  "There  is  good  ground  between  Mer- 
ton  Garden  and  the  Cherwell,  sir,  where  we  are  not 
like  to  be  disturbed."  Colonel  Stow  bowed.  "An- 
other matter,  sir.  If  this  be  not  bloodless  we  shall 
be  required  to  give  a  cause  for  the  quarrel.  You  will 
concede  that  a  lady's  name  should  not  be  made  vul- 
gar." 

"You  take  yourself  too  seriously,  Mr.  Bourne," 
said  Colonel  Stow  with  a  smile.  "But  if  your  dignity 
needs  a  fairy  tale,  why,  as  I  remember,  your  indig- 
nation began  at  some  talk  of  babes.  Let  us  say  we 
disagree  concerning  the  fashion  of  babies'  clothes." 

Mr.  Bourne  made  an  angry  exclamation,  and, 
turning,  strode  fiercely  on. 

Close  upon  Cherwell  bank,  where  the  kingcups 
glowed,  they  found  short  grass  and  the  light  falling 
fair  through  the  willows.  Mr.  Bourne  was  for  en- 
gaging at  once.  "Do  you  insist  that  I  should  sweat?" 
said  Colonel  Stow  plaintively,  and  made  a  gesture  of 
taking  off  his  coat 

"As  you  will  and  how  you  will,  sir,"  cried  Mr. 
Bourne.    "Prithee,  do  not  delay." 

"There  is  plenty  of  time  in  your  life  yet,  believe 


MR.    BOURNE    IS    SORRY  113 

me,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  and  was  meticulous  in  fold- 
ing his  coat. 

The  swords  crossed.  Gilbert  Bourne  came  on 
with  fierce  vigor  and  skill.  He  had  the  best  of  the 
English  style.  Colonel  Stow  knew  that  and  some 
others,  but  Mr.  Bourne  exercised  him.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  check  the  lad's  fervor.  After  a  parry  of 
prime  Mr.  Bourne  drew  back  his  blade  to  make  a 
complicated  attack.  Colonel  Stow  gave  point  in  a 
stop  thrust.  It  was  all  but  home  in  the  throat.  Mr. 
Bourne  came  on,  fighting  keenly,  and  more  keenly 
still  as  his  blade  was  countered  again  and  again,  till 
his  play  was  more  fierce  than  safe.  To  one  wild 
rush  Colonel  Stow  threw  back  his  left  foot  and 
dropped  his  body.  While  Mr.  Bourne's  blade 
gleamed  idle  over  his  head,  he  straightened  his  arm 
and  his  point  shot  round  Mr.  Bourne's  side,  cutting 
a  neat  line  in  the  lace  shirt.  It  might  as  easily  have 
been  in  the  heart.  Mr.  Bourne  knew  that  as  well  as 
Colonel  Stow.  He  recovered  and  sprang  back,  and 
hesitated  a  moment,  his  eyes  searching  Colonel 
Stow's  amiable  face.  Then  he  came«on  again,  but 
with  more  caution,  and  Colonel  Stow  found  a  use 
for  all  his  skill.  Mr.  Bourne  was  fighting  for  his 
sword's  honor.  His  anger  was  under  the  curb.  He 
called  on  himself  for  every  trick  of  the  art,  and  he 
had  more  of  the  quickness  of  the  schools  than  re- 
mained with  the  soldier  of  many  campaigns.  Colonel 
Stow  was  pressed  hard.   He  fought  it  out  coolly.  He 


114  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

could  trust  his  strength  to  see  Mr.  Bourne  weaken. 
But  each  minute  had  close  perils. 

"Thunder  of  God!"  It  was  a  rattling  German 
oath,  and  with  it  the  swords  were  struck  up  and  a 
big  fellow  sprang  between  them.  "Is  there  no  foe 
without,  that  cavaliers  should  fight  each  other  like 
rams?  Put  up  your  iron,  Gilbert."  It  was  Prince 
Rupert 

"  'Tis  an  affair  of  honor,  sir,"  said  Gilbert  sulkily. 

"Your  honor  is  to  obey.  Put  up,  man,  or  you  have 
to  do  with  Rupert.  Who  is  this  gentleman  ?  Ah !" 
He  knew  the  man  who  had  saluted  him.  "Who  are 
you?" 

Colonel  Stow  made  his  salute  again.  "Jeremiah 
Stow,  sir,  lately  colonel  in  the  service  of  the  Duke 
of  Weimar,  and  anxious  to  be  in  yours." 

"So."  The  dark  brows  bent.  "And  in  whose 
service  are  you  killing  Mr.  Bourne?" 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "Sir,  if  you  saw  our  last 
passes,  you  must  know  it  was  not  Mr.  Bourne  who 
was  like  to  need  a  coffin." 

"Indeed,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Bourne,  "Colonel  Stow 
fights  to  please  me,  not  himself — and  hath  shown 
more  courtesy  than  I." 

"So."  Prince  Rupert  looked  from  one  to  the 
other.    "What  is  the  quarrel  ?" 

Colonel  Stow  smiled  with  intention  on  Mr. 
Bourne,  who  blushed  furiously.  "Why,  sir,  there  is 
an  age  when  a  man  hates  to  be  called  a  boy,  and 
longs  to  be  taken  solemnly.     I  have  offended  Mr. 


MR.    BOURNE    IS    SORRY  115 

Bourne  in  both  parts.  I  have  no  gift  for  being 
solemn,  but  I  will  promise  Mr.  Bourne  to  do  my  best 
with  him  hereafter.  His  sword-play  is  at  least  no 
jest." 

"Colonel  Stow  does  himself  an  injustice,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Bourne  quickly.  "If  he  had  willed  it  I  had  been 
on  the  turf." 

"Faith,"  quoth  Prince  Rupert,  clapping  a  hand 
on  either  shoulder,  "you  are  neither  slaughterers  in 
earnest,  and  you  do  yourselves  an  injustice  to  play 
at  it.    I  will  see  you  join  hands." 

"I  shall  be  glad  if  Mr.  Bourne  can  be  my  friend," 
said  Colonel  Stow. 

Mr.  Bourne  flushed — a  struggle  was  plain  in  him 
— then  suddenly  he  gripped  Colonel  Stow's  hand. 
"You  are  always  to  outdo  me,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  Then  turned  to  Prince  Rupert.  "Indeed,  sir, 
I  owe  more  to  Colonel  Stow  than  I  can  repay.  I 
would  pray  your  Highness  to  consider  his  claims, 
for  I  can  warrant  him  a  soldier  of  courage  and  re- 
source," and  to  the  embarrassment  of  Colonel  Stow 
he  related  the  entanglement  of  Cornet  Tompkins. 

"I'gad,  sir,  you  are  a  man  for  me,"  cried  Prince 
Rupert.    "What  was  your  service  in  Germany?" 

"I  can  send  your  Highness  letters  from  the  Duke 
of  Weimar  and  Oxenstierna." 

"Do  so,  and  you  shall  hear  from  me,"  Prince 
Rupert  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  am  your  Highness'  servant — and,  if  I  may 
speak  of  him,  my  comrade.  Colonel  Royston,  who  is 


ii6  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

as  good  a  soldier  as  myself  and  of  longer  service, 
seeks  a  commission,  too." 

"Let  me  have  his  papers.  We  need  men." 
Touching  his  hat,  the  Prince  swung  away. 

"I  think  we  are  quits  now,  Mr.  Bourne,"  said 
Colonel  Stow  with  a  smile. 

"There  is  the  other  matter,"  said  Mr.  Bourne. 
The  two  men  looked  in  each  other's  eyes. 

"Sir,  I  fear  you  have  mistook  a  kindness  for  some- 
thing more,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"You  conceive  that  Mistress  Weston  honors  your 
affection?"  Mr.  Bourne  cried. 

"Sir,  I  am  very  sure  of  it." 

There  was  pity  in  Mr.  Bourne's  smile.  "I  am 
sorry,"  he  said  gently ;  "she  is  pledged  to  me." 

"You  mistake,"  said  Colonel  Stow.  Again  they 
looked  at  each  other  a  while,  silent.  "You  will  agree 
that  she  should  best  know?"  said  Colonel  Stow,  with 
something  of  a  whimsical  smile. 

Mr.  Bourne  looked  pity  again.  "I  am  sorry,"  he 
said.    "I  am  sorry." 

Colonel  Stow  found  him  irritating,  and  was  glad 
that  the  chapel  bells  alarmed  him,  and  he  fled  to  his 
post  in  the  King's  Guard. 

Colonel  Stow  went  off  to  speak  with  Lucinda.  He 
did  not  see  any  humor  in  the  affair. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

COLONEL  ROYSTON  STAYS  BY  A  LADY 

WITHOUT  ceremony  Lucinda  drew  Colonel 
Royston  away  from  her  mother.  "I  must 
speak  with  you  at  once,  sir."  Colonel  Royston  pre- 
tended no  pleasure  as  he  rose.  My  Lady  Weston 
was  left  alone  in  that  placid  unhappiness  she  knew 
best.  Colonel  Royston  was  taken  to  the  garden. 
"Sir,  your  friend  and  Mr.  Bourne  are  gone  away  in 
anger  together,  for  a  duello,  as  I  believe." 

Colonel  Royston  allowed  himself  the  smile  of  a 
cynic.    "I  congratulate  you,"  said  he. 

He  brought  the  blood  to  her  cheeks.  "You  are 
insolent,  sir,"  she  cried. 

"It  is  amusing,"  said  Colonel  Royston. 

Lucinda  stared  at  him.  He  was  a  new  kind  of 
man.  And  to  her,  it  may  be,  his  roughness  was 
strength.  At  least  he  challenged  her,  and  she  was 
ready.  "You  are  little  concerned  for  your  friend," 
she  said  with  a  sneer. 

"My  concern  is  for  the  other  gentleman,"  said 
Colonel  Royston  grimly.  "So  I  will  preserve  your 
own  admirable  calm." 

117 


ii8  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Pray,  why  should  1  be  troubled  by  their  dan- 
ger?" she  cried. 

"God  forbid  I  should  help  you  to  emotion,"  said 
Colonel  Royston  heartily.  "Yet  each  of  these  two 
silly  gentlemen  has  run  some  small  risk  of  life  for 
you." 

"And  am  I  not  worth  a  risk?"  she  said  softly. 
She  faced  him,  lithe  and  white,  with  a  strange, 
mocking  smile. 

"If  you  did  not  think  you  were  you  might  be," 
said  Colonel  Royston. 

"Am  I  the  weaker  for  knowing  myself?" 

"Is  any  man  the  stronger  for  knowing  you?" 

"You  do  not  answer,"  she  said  gently.  "You  only 
hate  me.    Why  ?" 

"It  happens  that  you  were  made  for  that,"  said 
Colonel  Royston. 

"Because  I  have  won  your  friend?"  And  the 
fire  went  out  of  her  eyes,  and  they  were  grave  and 
kindly. 

"Because  you  have  won  what  you  can  not  value." 

"Perhaps  I  know,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Per- 
haps I — I  am  sorry.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  would  I  were 
more  than  I  am,  or  less."  Colonel  Royston  was  sur- 
prised at  the  subtlety,  and  turned  to  face  her.  "Is 
it  my  fault  a  man  should  love  me?"  she  said,  with 
something  of  a  sad  smile. 

"Ay,  and  his  ill  fortune,"  replied  Colonel  Roy- 
ston. 

"Oh,  your  words  try  only  to  strike !"  she  cried,  her 


COLONEL  ROYSTON  STAYS  BY  A  LADY  1 19 

brow  drawn.  "Why  should  it  please  you  to  hurt 
me?"  and  her  throat  quivered. 

"I  am  no  man  for  women,  madame,"  said  Colonel 
Royston  gruffly.  "We  are  best  apart,"  but  he  did 
not  go,  and  his  face  was  set  in  a  dark  frown  as  he 
looked  down  at  her. 

"Nay,  why  will  you  hate  me?"  she  cried.  "What 
wrong  have  I  done?" 

"It  were  well  you  should  be  faithful  to  my 
friend,"  said  Colonel  Royston. 

Her  cheeks  flamed.  She  was  erect  and  proud- 
eyed.  "When  I  plight  faith  I  shall  keep  it,"  she  said. 
Then  on  a  sudden  pressed  her  hand  to  her  temple. 
"Oh,  I  know,  I  know!"  she  cried.  "He  is  noble — 
nobler  than  I,  I  think.  And  yet — and  yet — ah,  can 
you  guess  how  a  woman  yearns  for  strength,  hard, 
cruel  strength?" 

It  was  a  shot  that  hit  the  white.  Colonel  Royston 
himself  thought  his  friend  too  kindly — loved  him, 
perhaps,  for  the  weakness,  yet  thought  him  less. 
Himself,  being  hard  enough,  was  the  greater  in  his 
own  eyes.  He  smiled  upon  her  for  her  good  taste  in 
men.  But  he  was  still  loyal.  "You  will  find  Colonel 
Stow  strong  enough,  madame,"  said  he. 

"I  can  not  tell,"  she  murmured.  "And  I  would 
not  hurt  him.  It  is  difficult."  She  was  pale,  and 
she  trembled  a  little.  Colonel  Royston  signed  mutely 
to  a  chair.  "Nay,  walk  with  me  a  while."  She 
passed  her  bare  arm  through  his,  and  together  they 
paced  the  turf,  she  a  slight,  white  thing  to  his  broad 


120  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

strength.  "If  he  could  make  me  afraid,"  she  mur- 
mured to  herself.  Then  louder:  "I  can  not  go  the 
straight  ways,  you  know.  There  is  something  wild 
in  me.  If  he  can  not  master  it,  I  am  not  sure — I  am 
not  sure." 

"Yet  I  have  heard  you  call  him  master,"  said 
Colonel  Royston. 

"I  wanted  to  believe  it,"  she  said  simply.  "Nay, 
he  is  clever,  and  a  man  who  does  things  dazzles  me. 
Oh,  he  is  adroit,  and  frank,  and  gay,  and  that  night 
I  hoped — I  hoped — "  She  sighed,  then  swiftly 
changed  her  tone.  "But  if  I  were  his,  you  would 
hate  me.    You  want  your  friend." 

Colonel  Royston  stiffened.  "I  like  to  think  he 
wants  me." 

"You  are  not  modest,"  she  laughed. 

There  was  something  grim  in  Colonel  Royston's 
smile.  "Faith,  madame,  there  is  not  much  modesty 
in  this  garden." 

"You  are  not  a  coxcomb,  but  a  man.  Why  should' 
I  pretend  to  you?  Oh,  I  loathe  the  women  that 
must  be  always  hiding  behind  a  veil." 

"Yet  there  is  a  decency  in  clothes,"  said  Colonel 
Royston. 

"Clothes  are  for  the  people  one  does  not  trust. 
Do  you  never  take  off  yours,  sir?" 

"  'Tis  an  unedifying  sight,  madame."  He  looked 
down  at  her  with  a  grim  smile.  "You  would  see  no 
better  than  a  hungry  beast." 

/'Hungry — for  what?" 


COLONEL  ROYSTON  STAYS  BY  A  LADY  121 

"For  all  there  is  in  life." 
"Good— and  evil?" 

"If  it  has  a  relish.  What  is  a  man  for  but  to  taste 
all  and  get  his  fill  of  what  he  likes  best?" 

"And  what  is  your  liking,  sir?" 

"I'll  tell  you  when  I  die." 

"You  have  not  found  it  yet?" 

"I  have  found  a  thousand  things  worth  living  for, 
and  none  worth  dying  for — a  thousand  things  to 
like,  and  none  to  love." 

"Not  even  a  woman  ?"  said  Lucinda,  smiling. 

"All  the  women  I  ever  knew  have  too  many 
clothes — or  nothing  inside  the  clothes." 

"I  am  not  like  that,"  said  Lucinda  meekly. 

Colonel  Royston  laughed.  "You !  No,  you  are 
white  flame  in  a  woman's  body." 

A  moment  her  hand  closed  lightly  on  his  arm. 
She  drew  in  her  breath.  "You  know  me,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice. 

"And,  by  Heaven,  you  are  worth  knowing,"  mut- 
tered Colonel  Royston.  His  face  was  something 
flushed.  They  paced  on  a  while  in  silence,  and  she 
watched  him  with  sparkling  eyes  intent.  But  Colonel 
Royston  had  his  head  back  and  was  staring  full  in 
front.  With  a  queer  laugh  he  looked  down  at  her. 
"For  good  or  ill,"  said  he. 

"Indeed,  I  fear  you'll  always  be  able  to  laugh  at 
me,"  said  Lucinda. 

"It  will  be  mighty  good  for  you." 

"So  I'll  take  you  as  medicine." 


122  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"I'll  strive  to  be  fitly  nasty." 

"Will  you  find  it  an  effort,  sir?"  Lucinda  laughed. 
And  they  saw  Colonel  Stow. 

"Have  you  buried  him,  Jerry?"  cried  Colonel 
Royston. 

"Mr.  Bourne  is  my  very  good  friend,"  said 
Colonel  Stow. 

Lucinda  blushed  and  stood  still.  "Oh,  lud," 
quoth  Colonel  Royston.  "And  have  you  not  marked 
him?" 

"I  am  glad  I  did  not,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

Colonel  Royston  whistled,  and,  "You  are  very 
compassionate,  sir,"  Lucinda  sneered. 

"I  can  not  guess  why  you  should  be  bloodthirsty, 
madame,"  said  Colonel  Stow  sharply. 

"Nay,  keep  your  censure  for  who  will  endure  it!" 
she  cried. 

"Tira  lira,"  Colonel  Royston  concluded  his  mel- 
ody. "L  profess  most  men  would  think  you  owed 
Mr.  Bourne  some  small  matter  of  a  sword-point, 
Jerry." 

"Mr.  Bourne  has  been  in  a  mistake,"  said  Colonel 
Stow,  and  came  up  to  Lucinda.  She  met  him  with  a 
defiance  that  made  her  lovely.  "Madame,  Mr. 
Bourne  conceives  that  he  has  some  right  in  you.  It 
wer^-" 

"Is  it  my  fault  if  Mr.  Bourne  is  a  fool?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  with  the  beginning 
of  a  smile.  "And  now  you  will  make  him  wise 
again.    You  will  wake  him  from  this  mistake." 


COLONEL  ROYSTON  STAYS  BY  A  LADY  123 

Her  bosom  rose.  "You  take  a  high  tone,  sir !"  she 
cried.    "It  may  be  you  are  in  a  mistake,  too." 

"Am  I  ?"  said  Colonel  Stow.  Then  he  caught  her 
hands,  and,  though  she  leaned  all  her  body  away 
from  him,  he  drew  her  close  till  her  breast  touched 
his.  Her  neck  was  rosy.  Her  eyes  shone  dark.  "Do 
I  presume?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "You  know." 
And  so  held  her  a  moment,  her  breast  beating  light 
against  his,  his  breath  in  her  hair,  while  she  feared 
and  longed  for  what  might  come  next.  For  Colonel 
Royston  stood  by,  frowning  and  grim.  But  Colonel 
Stow  let  her  go  gently,  and  with  a  quiet,  "I  am  your 
servant,  madame,"  made  his  bow  and  kissed  her 
hand.  .  .  .  She,  intent  on  him,  was  a  moment  be- 
fore she  thought  of  offering  it  to  Colonel  Royston, 
But  Royston,  with  the  briefest  bow,  turned  on  his 
heel  and  followed  his  friend. 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  boy?"  said  Colonel 
Royston  gruffly,  as  they  turned  into  the  street. 

"Made  a  hole  in  his  shirt.    He  needed  no  more." 

Colonel  Royston  grunted.  "The  fact  is,  you  are 
too  much  the  lady,  Jerry,"  says  he. 

"Men  should  love  me  the  more." 

"And  what  of  the  women?" 

"There  is  one  that  matters,  and  I  shall  content 
her."  This  confidence  annoyed  Colonel  Royston, 
who  looked  sour  enough.  "I'gad,  'twas  a  quaint 
fight,  George.  The  Lad  will  be  no  ill  sword  when  he 
toughens.  He  exercised  me.  I  was  fairly  praying 
for  him  to  tire,  when  in  strikes  the  Palatine  and 


124  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

would  have  us  embrace.  I  believe  I  pleased  Mon- 
sieur Rupert.  He'll  give  me  a  regiment  if  I  know 
men.  So  I  spoke  a  word  for  you,  too.  And  I  think 
our  affair  is  done." 

"Ay,"  says  Royston  with  a  sneer.  "A  regiment 
for  you  and  a  company  for  me.  Ay,  you  are  char- 
itable." 

Colonel  Stow  stared.  He  was  not  used  to  jealousy 
in  his  friend.  "Faith,  George,  I  am  selfish  enough 
with  you.  You've  given  too  much  for  me.  But  in 
this  there  is  no  more  for  me  than  you.  If  the  Pala- 
tine will  not  give  us  two  like  commissions,  the  better 
is  yours." 

"No,  i'gad!"  cried  Royston,  flushing.  "I  am  a 
cur,  Jerry." 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

"why  come  ye  not  to  court?"    , 

TT  was  a  court  of  fantasy.  No  man  looked  what  he 
-*-  was.  No  man  said  what  he  meant.  Each  much- 
curled  dame  played  at  being  the  goddess  she  was 
called.  All  the  air  was  heavily  fragrant  of  bows  and 
lofty  conceits,  and  Colonel  Stow  found  it  some- 
thing hard  to  breathe.  He  was  not  able  to  tell 
Chloris  that  her  voice  called  his  fleeting  soul  away, 
nor  swear  to  Saccharissa  that  her  beauties  employed 
his  utmost  sight,  as  the  first  dawn  the  eyes  of  Adam. 
He  could  not  profess  himself  prostrated  like  the 
groveling  Caliban  by  the  courteous  grace  of  a  gen- 
tleman who  made  way  for  him,  or  liken  King 
Charles  on  his  entry  to  the  white  sun  waking  the 
splendors  of  all  the  subject  flowers  his  light  had 
made.  In  such  a  world  he  felt  himself  the  country 
lad  in  worsted  who  was  a  judge  of  furrows  and  right 
harrowing. 

But  there  was  splendor.  Diamonds  and  white 
bosoms  were  gay  all  down  the  great  hall  of  Christ 
Church,  and  men,  too,  sparkled  in  jewels,  and  vied 
with  the  women's  silk  and  brocade.     The  scarlet 

125 


126  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

gowns  of  doctors  of  divinity  were  no  more  than  a 
simple  chord  in  the  loud  melody  of  color.  Colonel 
Royston  approved.  This  was  to  his  taste.  Thus 
gorgeous  a  court  should  be.  He  fed  on  the  luxury 
of  it,  and,  proud  of  his  own  simplicity,  despised 
them  all,  and  most  of  all  the  elaborately  posing 
King.  Indeed,  King  Charles  posed  well — a  stately 
melancholy  in  cloth  of  silver  that  set  off  his  dark 
eyes  and  hair.  His  Queen,  for  all  her  golden  gown, 
was  but  a  foil  to  him.  Her  weak,  round  beauty  made 
his  sad  sentiment  look  noble.  "You  might  almost 
take  him  for  a  man  to-night,"  said  Colonel  Royston. 
While  he  spoke  came  through  the  courtiers  one  who 
was  that  at  least.  Prince  Rupert,  taller  by  a  head 
than  the  men  who  tilted  eyebrows  and  sneered  as  he 
passed,  made  a  mock  of  their  splendor.  Colonel 
Stow  could  see  the  faces  change  ludicrously.  Prince 
Rupert  was  in  simple  dove  gray  from  head  to  heel, 
and  even  his  sword  hilt  plain,  but  across  his  breast 
was  the  broad  blue  riband  of  the  garter.  The  Pala- 
tine knew  how  to  dress.  Colonel  Stow  honored  the 
ability  of  it  with  a  whimsical  smile.  Since  these  men 
were  to  be  swayed  so,  so  they  must  be  swayed.  One 
would  not,  however,  admire  them  for  it,  nor  perhaps 
the  man  who  cared  to  deal  with  them  so. 

The  Prince  took  him  by  the  elbow  and  had  him 
out  of  the  throng  to  the  stairway.  "Look  you,  sir,  I 
have  a  word  for  you.  I  have  read  your  papers,  and 
they  like  me.  I  never  knew  Oxenstierna  could  praise 
before.     I  think  you  have  seen  more  service  than 


"WHY  COME  YE  NOT  TO   COURT?"    127 

myself.  I  see  you  were  with  Turenne.  Why  did 
you  leave  him?" 

"M.  de  Turenne  has  a  brutality  of  manner,"  said 
Colonel  Stow. 

"He  is  like  a  cat,"  the  Palatine  admitted.  "A 
quarrel,  eh?" 

"He  proposed  a  hanging  which  I  could  not  per- 
mit." 

"Was  it  your  own?" 

"No,  sir;  a  prisoner." 

"So.  If  that  is  your  temper,  you  are  the  more  use. 
Look  you,  sir,  war  here  is  not  the  war  of  Germany. 
It  is  all  policy  and  quarter.  They  call  me  Rupert  le 
Diable,  but,  thunder  of  God !  if  these  English  knew 
what  war  could  be,  they  would  worship  me.  Under- 
stand me,  sir,"  the  brown  eyes  blazed  suddenly,  "if 
you  can  not  hold  your  men,  you  are  no  use  to  me." 

"I  brought  a  squadron  of  Croats  through  Saxony 
after  Wittstock,  and  no  woman  was  the  worse  for 
them." 

"Good."  The  brown  eyes  twinkled.  "I  am  only 
asking  you  for  miracles.  Well,  you  will  have  no 
such  rogues  as  Croats,  but  you  will  have  fools  who 
think  they  have  rights.  Oh,  the  devil !  Are  you  the 
nineteenth  cousin  of  any  great  house,  yourself?" 

"My  father  is  a  yeoman  squire  in  Buckingham.  I 
know  no  better  of  my  blood  than  that." 

"Thank  God  for  it!"  Rupert  clapped  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "The  army  is  crawling  with  fellows  who 
have  some  dirty  connection  with  dirty  blue  blood. 


128  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Well,  sir,  if  you  will,  you  may  have  your  commis- 
sion to  a  regiment  of  horse." 

"I  humbly  thank  your  Highness.  And  I  dared  to 
speak  for  my  friend?" 

"Oh,  ay,  your  friend.  You  can  give  him  a 
squadron."  ' 

"By  your  Highness'  leave — if  I  might  take  the 
squadron  and  Colonel  Royston  the  regiment.  He  is 
an  older  soldier  than  L" 

"Ods  blood,  here  is  a  friendship !  Take  care. 
There  was  never  much  got  by  playing  Jonathan." 
But  he  looked  at  Colonel  Stow  with  a  kindly,  boyish 
delight.  "Well,  tell  me  the  man's  service,"  said  he, 
and  he  linked  arms  and  walked  out  to  the  freshness 
of  the  night. 

-There  was  that  within  for  which  the  Palatine  had 
little  taste.  To  the  strains  of  flageolet  and  clavichord 
a  smooth  lad  of  the  Christ  Church  servitors,  tricked 
out  in  a  woman's  clothes,  was  singing  a  fantastical 
lament  as  lo,  the  wretched  love  of  Jove.  Now,  lo, 
you  recall,  was  through  Juno's  jealousy  tormented 
by  an  immortal  gadfly.  So  when  the  boy  ended  with 
a  great  tremolo : 

Woe  is  me  that  I  am  fair ! 
Woe  is  me  that  I  am  young! 
Woe  is  me,  for  my  soul  is  stung 
Ever!   Ever!  Ever! 

my  Lord  Jermyn  was  pleased  to  make  him  a  low 
bow  and  took  up  the  doleful  tune : 


"WHY   COME  YE   NOT  TO   COURT?"    129 

Sister  lo,  you  are  dull; 
Sister  lo,  go  and  try, 
Sister  lo,  to  kill  your  fly. 

Spider!  Spider!  Spider! 

It  was  within  the  comprehension  of  her  Majesty. 
She  abandoned  herself  to  laughter,  and  at  once  all 
the  court  honored  this  wondrous  wit.  Even  the 
royal  melancholy  beside  her  condescended  to  a  child- 
ish smile.  The  world  might  nudge  and  whisper  be- 
hind his  back,  but  he  could  not  dream  of  jealousy 
against  my  Lord  Jermyn.  Yet  of  that  queer  menage 
of  three,  the  best  brains  were  in  my  Lord  Jermyn's 
head.  The  Queen  was  urging  him  to  sing  now,  and 
he  denied  only  long  enough  to  win  a  tap  of  her  fan. 
Little  and  sleek,  in  a  splendid  red  brocade,  with  a 
chain  of  rubies  round  his  neck  that  he  could  never 
have  paid  for,  he  posed  till  he  waked  all  expectation. 
Then  he  whispered  a  word  to  the  flageolet,  and  in  a 
pleasant  voice  enough : 

Oft  have  I  mused  the  cause  to  find 

Why  love  in  ladies'  eyes  should  dwell ; 

I  thought  because  himself  was  blind 

He  looked  that  they  should  guide  him  well. 

And  sure  his  hope  but  seldom  fails, 

For  love  by  ladies'  eyes  prevails. 

But  time  at  last  hath  taught  me  wit, 
Although  I  bought  my  wit  full  dear ; 

For  by  her  eyes  my  heart  is  hit. 

Deep  is  the  wound,  though  none  appear. 


130  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Their  glancing  beams  as  darts  he  throws, 
And  sure  he  hath  no  shafts  but  those. 

I  mused  to  see  their  eyes  so  bright, 
And  little  thought  they  had  been  fire; 

I  gazed  upon  them  with  delight. 
But  that  delight  hath  bred  desire. 

What  better  place  can  love  desire 

Than  that  where  grow  both  shafts  and  fire? 

He  acted  it  to  the  Queen,  and  she  laughed  back  to 
him  and  conquetted  with  her  fan,  and  at  last  was 
pleased  to  feign  displeasure  at  his  boldness.  So  that 
there  was  no  royal  sign  given  for  applause,  and  my 
Lord  Jermyn  was  honored  with  a  silence.  Then  he, 
keeping  up  the  silly  game  she  loved,  must  needs 
play  pique,  and  turned  away  from  her.  So,  peacock- 
ing it  through  the  throng,  he  came  upon  Lucinda. 
My  Lord  Jermyn  was  a  connoisseur.  This  lithe, 
fierce  creature  took  his  eye.  A  sea-green  dress 
clung  to  her,  and  there  were  emeralds  in  the  gor- 
geous mass  of  her  hair  that  dared  a  happy  disorder. 
She  bore  herself  nobly.  The  slim  neck  and  shoul- 
ders were  no  alabaster,  but  warm  with  quick  life. 
My  Lord  Jermyn  appraised  her,  and  met  eyes  as 
bold  as  his  own. 

"  'For  by  her  eyes  my  heart  is  hit,*  "  he  cried 
quickly. 

"A  small  mark,  my  lord." 

**A  poor  thing,  madame,  and  not  now  mine  own." 


"WHY  COME  YE   NOT  TO   COURT?"    131 

"Why,  have  you  mislaid  it?"  says  she,  with  a 
swift  glance  at  the  Queen. 

"I  have  dropped  it  in  your  bosom,  madame,"  re- 
plied my  Lord  Jermyn. 

"A  cold  habitation." 

"The  flame  of  my  desire  will  melt  those  walls  of 
snow." 

"And  your  heart  be  drowned,  like  a  blind  puppy." 

"You  fence  with  a  sharp  sword,  madame,"  cried 
my  Lord  Jermyn,  something  hurt 

"I  would  be  a  foil  to  no  man,  my  lord." 

"Nay,  you  are  made  to  be  a  man's  breastplate." 

"I  know  no  man  big  enough  to  wear  me." 

My  Lord  Jermyn  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 
"Then,  madame,  you  condemn  the  creation.  And 
you  were  made  to  be  its  joy." 

"I  had  rather  be  my  own." 

"All  men  are  yours,"  said  my  Lord  Jermyn. 

Lucinda  smiled.  "While  I  am  not  theirs,  I  am 
well  content." 

"Ods  blood!"  cried  my  Lord  Jermyn  in  a  fine 
transport,  "there  is  one  man  I  envy  and  I  hate  to 
death."    Then  with  a  grin  :    "And  pity." 

"Who  Is  it?"  asked  Lucinda  in  sweet  innocence. 

"Ay,  who  is  it?  I  am  on  fire  to  know.  Who  is 
the  happy  man  that  makes  those  cruel  eyes  melt,  that 
still  bosom  throb?  I  would  condole  with  him — or 
kill  him." 

"I  wish  I  knew  him,"  said  Lucinda,  smiling.  "Or 
will  you  be  he,  my  lord?" 


132  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

My  Lord  Jermyn  kissed  her  hand.  "And  I  will 
do  more  at  your  convenience." 

"Nay,  if  you  care  for  my  convenience,  you  care 
not  for  me." 

"I  protest!"  cried  my  Lord  Jermyn,  and  was  prob- 
ably in  earnest,  "I  protest  you  are  the  most  piquant 
mouthful  of  a  woman  that  ever  was  created !" 

"But  I  doubt  your  appetite,"  Lucinda  laughed. 

"Doubt  anything  but  that!"  cried  my  Lord  Jer- 
myn, and,  chancing  to  turn  a  little,  saw  the  Queen 
frown  black.  He  laughed  and  engaged  Lucinda 
more  closely.  "Nay,  madame,  you  have  brought 
wild  life  into  this  dull  court.  You  shall  enflame  us, 
you  shall  make  us  mad.  I  would  give  my  soul — or 
my  little  finger — to  make  you  mad  for  me." 

"It  would  surely  be  disloyal  of  me,"  said  Lucinda, 
with  a  quick  eye  upon  the  Queen,  "and  perhaps  not 
amusing." 

"Oh,  I  engage  for  that!"  cried  my  Lord  Jermyn. 
"Nothing  is  so  amusing  as  to  embrace  me.  It  has  so 
many  sensations." 

Lucinda  considered  him  with  mockery.  "Well,  I 
will  take  you  for  holidays,  my  lord.  But  indeed,  I 
must  have  another  for  my  daily  bread." 

"It  Is  dry,  the  daily  bread,"  said  my  Lord  Jermyn. 
"But  you,  madame,  are  like  wine  with  it  to  make  the 
sacrament  of  life."  He  pruned  himself  having 
achieved  such  a  conceit. 

"Alack,  my  lord,  while  I  make  you  think  of  splr- 


"WHY  COME  YE  NOT  TO   COURT?"    133 

itual  things,  you  remind  me  of  nothing  but  the 
earthly." 

"It  proves  that  we  are  apt  for  each  other,  like 
soul  and  body." 

"Ay,  my  lord,  in  most  of  us  they  quarrel  dough- 
tily." 

"And  the  soul  yields  to  the  body's  eloquence,"  and 
my  Lord  Jermyn  possessed  both  her  hands.  "Mad- 
ame, it  is  an  omen." 

"Of  eternal  punishment,  I  fear." 

"With  me  even  that  would  be  agreeable,"  says  my 
lord  modestly,  and  kissed  her  hands  and  her  arms. 
Then  sidewise  he  looked  at  the  Queen.  Her  dis- 
pleasure was  not  lovely.  My  Lord  Jermyn,  who  had 
some  likeness  to  a  monkey,  thought  of  a  new  mis- 
chief. "But  I  confess,  madame,  you  were  made  for 
an  angel." 

"Do  I  not  succeed  as  a  woman?" 

"Ay,  faith.  But  I  see  you  with  a  golden  harp.  I 
hear  your  heavenly  voice.   Confess  it,  you  sing?" 

"No  heavenly  songs,  my  lord." 

"The  better  fit  for  court.  Let  me  lead  you  to  the 
musicians.  Nay,  I  will  not  be  denied.  I  am  her 
Majesty's  master  of  the  revels." 

"Her  Majesty  will  not  revel  in  this,  my  lord," 
said  Lucinda,  with  a  swift,  laughing  glance  from 
the  Queen's  ill  grace  to  him.  But  she  suffered  her- 
self to  be  led. 

Lucinda  enjoyed  herself.     She  had  no  illusions 


134  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

about  my  Lord  Jermyn,  who  was  to  her  as  mean  a 
thing  as  Prince  Rupert  had  called  him.  But  my 
Lord  Jermyn  drew  the  eyes  of  the  court.  My  Lord 
Jermyn  could  help  her  to  do  the  like.  Once  on  the 
stage,  she  was  sure  of  her  power  to  dazzle  and  thrill. 
She  saw  herself  already  an  uncrowned  Queen. 

My  Lord  Jermyn  aping  it  about  her,  she  spoke 
with  the  musicians.  The  clavichord  broke  through 
the  rustle  of  talk.  It  was  a  song,  daring  on  a  wom- 
an's lips,  and  there  was  a  dance  with  it  of  no  cold 
measure. 

A  lover  I  am,  and  a  lover  I'll  be ! 

And  hope  from  my  love  I  shall  never  be  free. 

Let  wisdom  be  blamed  in  the  prudish  man-hater, 

For  never  to  love  is  a  sign  of  ill  nature ! 

But  she  who  loves  well,  and  whose  passion  is  strong, 

Shall  never  be  wretched,  and  always  be  young. 

With  hopes  and  with  fears,  like  a  ship  on  the  ocean. 
Our  hearts  are  kept  dancing  and  ever  in  motion ! 
When  our  passion  is  pallid  and  our  fancy  would  fail, 
A  little  kind  quarrel  supplies  a  fresh  gale ! 
But  when  the  doubt's  cleared  and  the  jealousy's  gone, 
How  we  kiss  and  embrace,  and  can  never  have  done ! 

Her  lithe  body  gave  all  its  grace  to  the  dance. 
She  acted  the  words  with  vivid  gestures  of  allure. 
When  at  last  the  swift  medley  of  color  and  womanly 
form  was  still,  and  she  stood  panting  delicately, 
smiling,  with  a  touch  of  red  in  her  cheeks,  even 


"WHY  COME  YE  NOT  TO   COURT?"    135 

though  the  King  maintained  his  sentimental  sad- 
ness and  the  Queen  was  moody  and  gave  no  lead,  the 
court  was  quick  with  my  Lord  Jermyn  to  do  her 
honor.  The  gentlemen,  and  even  some  of  their 
ladies,  crowded  about  her — my  Lord  Carnarvon,  my 
Lord  Wilmot,  my  Lord  Digby,  and  Madame  Sac- 
charissa,  too.    Lucinda  had  her  reward. 

With  hot  cheeks  and  kindling  eye,  Colonel  Roy- 
ston  watched  that  dance.  As  it  ended  and  they 
crowded  round  her,  he  turned  and  saw  beside  him 
Colonel  Stow.  "She  is  glorious,  Jerry !"  said 
Colonel  Royston,  and  his  voice  was  unsteady.  But 
it  was  plain  enough,  from  the  gloom  of  Colonel 
Stow's  brow,  that  he  was  of  another  mind.  "What, 
man !  You  are  not  a  puling  Puritan !  Hath  she  not 
a  splendid  life?" 

Colonel  Stow  forced  a  laugh.  "I  have  quiet 
tastes,  I  think,"  he  said. 

Royston  fell  back  a  step.  "By  Heaven,  Jerry,  you 
are  not  the  man  for  that  woman !"  he  muttered. 

"Perhaps  I  know  her  better  than  you,  than 
these — "  his  lip  curled  as  he  looked  at  the  courtiers 
about  her.  Colonel  Royston,  who  was  flushed,  bit 
his  dark  moustachios  on  an  oath.  "But  I  came  to 
seek  you,  George.  The  Palatine  asks  for  you." 
Royston  grunted  and  followed  without  a  word. 

Prince  Rupert  stood  in  the  quadrangle,  looking 
up  at  the  sky,  "Saturn  is  red  to-night,"  he  said. 
"What  would  Booker  argue  of  that,  I  wonder?" 
Colonel  Stow  and  his  friend,  who  were  no  astrolo- 


136  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

gers,  made  not  ,a  guess.  Prince  Rupert  returned  to 
the  world.  "So  you  are  Colonel  Royston,"  and  he 
looked  the  big  man  up  and  down.  "You  are  for- 
tunate in  your  friend." 

"I  shall  try  to  deserve  my  fortune,  sir." 

"No  man  deserves  his  friend,"  said  the  Palatine 
with  his  boyish  cynicism.  "I'gad,  sir,  what  can  you 
do  for  a  man  who  would  give  up  his  regiment  to 
find  you  one?"  Colonel  Royston  became  pale  and 
looked  at  his  friend  strangely.  "That  is  what  Jerry 
Stow  would  be  doing,"  said  Rupert,  laughing  and 
slapping  the  uncomfortable  Colonel  Stow  on  the 
shoulder.  "Well,  sir,  I  like  him  too  well  to  do  with- 
out him.  And  I  find  you  too  good  a  soldier  not  to 
use  you.  I  have  seen  your  papers  and  heard  more  of 
you,  and  faith,"  he  put  his  elbow  into  Colonel  Stow's 
ribs,  "I  think  your  deeds  have  lost  nothing  in  the 
telling.  There  is  a  Welsh  regiment  of  foot  forming. 
Faith,  it  will  need  some  forming,  but  I  hear  you  are 
a  doctor  of  the  Swedish  drill.  The  commission  is 
yours  if  you  care  to  have  it.  What  do  you  say,  man?" 

Colonel  Royston  saluted.  "I  am  your  Highness' 
obliged  servant." 

"So.  You  will  wait  on  me  in  the  morning."  He 
glanced  from  one  to  the  other.  They  were  both  ill 
at  ease.  "Two  is  company,  I  take  it,"  said  he  with  a 
laugh.  "Zounds !  this  affection  is  out  of  date.  Good 
night  to  you." 

Then  Colonel  Stow  linked  his  arm  with  his 
friend's.    "So  that  is  well,  George,"  said  he. 


"WHY  COME  YE   NOT  TO   COURT?"    137 

"Ay,  you  have  cut  a  mighty  fine  figure,"  growled 
Royston.  Colonel  Stow  started  in  utter  amaze. 
Royston  drew  away.  "And  what  good  is  it  to  us? 
The  Palatine  is  but  a  fool's  general.  You  know  it 
as  well  as  I.  And  you  have  seen  what  kind  of  honor 
they  have  for  him  here." 

"But  general  he  is,"  Colonel  Stow  expostulated. 
"And  if  we  are  to  have  commissions,  they  must  come 
from  him." 

"Oh,  ay,  if  you  like  to  crawl  and  beg  favors," 
cried  Royston.    "It  is  not  my  way." 

"You  are  unreasonable,  George,"  said  Colonel 
Stow  mildly. 

But  Royston  was  beyond  that.  "Oh,  ay,  I  am  un- 
reasonable. And  you  are  to  pose  as  chivalrous  and 
make  me  mean.  And  I  am  to  take  your  leavings 
while  all  the  world  praises  your  nobility.  It  is  al- 
ways so.    By  God,  am  I  made  only  to  be  your  foil?" 

"I  am  sorry,  George.    I — " 

"Oh,  curse  your  smoothness!"  cried  Royston,  and 
flung  away  in  a  rage. 

Colonel  Stow  stood  looking  after  him,  hurt  and 
hopelessly  puzzled. 

And  Colonel  Royston  stamped  away  through  the 
night  in  an  aching  fever  of  rage.  He  was  puzzled 
by  it,  and  raged  the  more  in  a  futile  hate  of  all  the 
world. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

COLONEL  ROYSTON   BREAKS    HIS   SWORD 

"V/'OU  can  hardly  conceive  Mr.  Bourne  at  peace  all 
-*-  this  while.  He  was  as  sure  of  Lucinda  as  of 
himself,  but  of  pure  charity  and  good  fellowship  it 
was  necessary  to  shatter  Colonel  Stow's  assurance. 
The  poor  gentleman  must  not  be  let  cheat  himself 
more.  To  fulfil  which  philanthropic  purpose  Mr. 
Bourne,  as  soon  as  his  duties  of  the  King's  Guard 
could  spare  him,  sought  the  aid  of  Lucinda. 

It  was  an  afternoon  of  swift  showers,  and  the 
walls  glistened  with  jewels.  Lucinda,  all  silver  and 
cream,  yawned  at  her  window  over  the  prudish 
poems  of  Mr.  Habington.  She  received  Mr.  Bourne 
with  a  smile  as  likely  to  be  more  amusing.  He  was 
at  least  gorgeous  in  his  scarlet  and  blue.  "You  are 
grateful  as  sunshine,  Gilbert,"  she  cried,  tossing  the 
book  away.  "That  man  makes  love  like  an  angel 
with  a  cold." 

"Is  my  way  better?"  said  Mr.  Bourne,  kissing  her 
hand. 

"Yours?    Well,  you  are  like  a  pleasant  child." 

138 


ROYSTON    BREAKS    HIS    SWORD    139 

Mr.  Bourne  frowned.  There  was  a  savor  in  that 
of  the  ideas  of  Colonel  Stow.  "You  did  not  think  so 
once,  madame,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  laughed  readily.  "Once  you  bored 
me.  That  was  when  you  thought  me  a  goddess." 
She  made  a  face  of  mock  horror,  and  he  smiled 
against  his  will. 

"Faith,  you  are  nothing  but  a  woman,  with  all 
the  torment  of  your  sex." 

"If  you  can  laugh  at  me,  I  shall  love  you,"  she 
said,  and  signed  him  to  a  place  at  her  side  in  the 
window-seat.  She  tossed  back  the  curls  that  glowed 
about  her  brow  and  freed  the  grace  of  her  neck  from 
its  lace  scarf. 

Mr.  Bourne  had  not  much  power  of  laughter, 
least  of  all  when  his  eyes  were  on  her.  He  looked 
long.  "Nay,  I  am  not  come  to  jest,"  he  said.  "Lu- 
cinda — we  must  be  frank  now." 

"Gilbert,  my  dear,  you  could  never  be  anything 
else,"  she  laughed. 

"Ay,  and  you,  you  must  understand — " 

"I  understand  you  to  your  finger-tips." 

"And  on  my  soul  I  understand  you,"  cried  Gil- 
bert, and  doubtless  believed  it. 

But  he  saw  that  strange,  wise,  mocking  smile  of 
hers.  "If  I  thought  so,"  she  said  slowly,  "why,  I 
might  be  afraid  of  you.  And  you — would  be 
happy." 

"I  am  happy,"  he  said  gravely,  "And  God  for- 
bid that  you  should  fear  mc."    She  laughed.    "Yes, 


I40  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

I  am  happy,"  and  he  took  her  hand.  "But  others 
must  know  that  I  am  happy,  Lucinda." 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Lucinda,  "at  knowing  an- 
other happy,  one  is  only  in  a  bad  temper."  And 
she  took  her  hand  back. 

Mr.  Bourne  laughed.  "I  shall  make  all  men  un- 
happy indeed." 

"You  are  not  big  enough,"  said  Lucinda,  shaking 
her  curls. 

"Nay,  but  you  are  my  queen,  and  when  I  possess 
you — " 

"You  will  have  grown,"  said  Lucinda  sharply. 

Mr.  Bourne  stared  at  her.  "Dear,  I  know  I  am 
all  unworthy,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"That  I  have  never  doubted." 

"But  in  truth  I  love  you  more  than  life.  You  are 
my  honor  and  my  soul." 

"It  is  a  little  tedious  for  me." 

Mr.  Bourne  made  an  exclamation.  "Once  you  did 
not  think  so." 

"My  dear  Gilbert,  while  you  were  not  serious,  you 
were  amusing." 

"Ah,  Lucinda,  this  is  no  jest !" 

"If  you  could  but  see  it !" 

"It  is  my  whole  life  and  yours,  and  we  dare  not 
play  with  it." 

"What  else  is  life  for?"  Lucinda  laughed. 

Mr.  Bourne  frowned.  "I  do  not  understand  you 
of  late." 

"Faith,  my  friend,  you  never  did." 


ROYSTON    BREAKS    HIS    SWORD    141 

"Is  it—-" 

Before  the  question  was  ended  Colonel  Stow 
came  in. 

"In  good  time,  sir,"  Lucinda  cried.  "Here  is  Mr. 
Bourne  as  serious  .as  a  thunderstorm." 

Colonel  Stow  bowed  to  Mr.  Bourne.  "A  very 
wholesome  affair,"  he  said  gravely. 

"Yes,  in  good  time,  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Bourne.  "I 
can  now  ask  Mistress  Weston  to  tell  you  what  she 
promised  me." 

Lucinda  gave  a  swift  glance  from  one  man  to  the 
other,  but  she  did  not  hesitate.  "A  smile  while  you 
live  and  a  sigh  when  you  die,"  she  cried. 

Colonel  Stow  turned  to  Mr.  Bourne. 

"Are  you  not  pledged?"  Mr.  Bourne  said  in  a 
strange  voice. 

She  laughed.  "Gilbert,  my  dear,  you  are  very 
tragic,"  He  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "And  it 
becomes  you  deplorably." 

"Nay,  answer  me !"  he  cried  hoarsely. 

Colonel  Stow  drew  away. 

"My  friend,  there  is  no  return  for  worship.  You 
have  worshipped  me,  so  why  should  I  care  for  you  ?" 
The  lad  flinched  and  was  white,  and  turned  un- 
steadily away.  "Oh,  Gilbert,  pray  be  amusing. 
That  is  your  metier." 

He  faced  round  upon  her.  He  was  white  still  to 
the  lips,  and  his  eyes  misty.  He  tried  to  speak.  "I 
— I  am  sorry,"  he  muttered,  and  made  his  bow  and 
bur^  out. 


142  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Lucinda  smiled  at  Colonel  Stow.  "With  his  next 
love,  he  will  think  himself  more  and  her  less,  and  it 
will  be  the  happier  for  both  of  them.  Mon  Dieu,  he 
has  been  an  entertainment !" 

But  Colonel  Stow  was  entirely  grave.  "You  do 
yourself  an  injustice,  madame." 

"To  deny  myself  to  Mr.  Bourne?  Sure,  you 
would  have  me  too  generous,  sir." 

"To  jeer  at  a  man's  devotion." 

Her  eyes  flamed.  "What  right  have  you  to  re- 
buke me?" 

"No  one  in  the  world  has  the  right  but  me." 

"Are  you  to  order  my  life?" 

"Your  life  is  mine,  your  honor  mine." 

She  sprang  up.  She  flung  her  arms  wide.  "To 
no  man!  To  no  man  in  the  world!"  she  cried,  and 
her  voice  was  glad.  She  stood  against  him,  maiden 
in  the  pure,  gentle  hue  of  her  dress,  passionate  with 
vivid  lips,  and  the  glow  of  her  hair  and  her  eager 
eyes,  all  fiercely  lovely. 

"How  little  you  know !"  he  said,  and  laughed  a 
little.  "Are  you  glad  to  be  a  queen  that  is  deaf  and 
dumb  and  blind?  You  are  that,  no  more  than  that, 
in  your  maidenhood.  You'll  never  know  life  with- 
out me.    The  power  of  you  sleeps  till  I  waken  it." 

"My  power?"  She  threw  the  laugh  back  at  him. 
She  was  defiant  still,  but  something  of  the  fierceness 
was  gone  out  of  her.  "My  power?  Ask  other  men 
of  that.  The  boy  that  is  gone — ay,  and  stronger 
than  he.   Have  I  no  power  over  them  ?" 


ROYSTON    BREAKS    HIS    SWORD    143 

"Yes,  power  to  bewilder  them,  and  torture  them, 
and  make  them  mad.  Do  you  think  you  were  made 
for  no  better  than  that?  By  Heaven,  it  shall  not  be !" 
He  strode  to  her  and  gripped  her  hands.  His  eyos 
were  flaming  with  a  rare  light.  She  felt  the  keen 
strength  of  him,  manhood  at  war  with  her  own 
nature.  "You!  You  must  give  men  heart  to  dare 
and  work.  You  are  to  help  life,  not  break  it.  With 
me  and  through  me,  we  together  to  order  and  guide 
the  people.  I  have  not  the  force  without  you,  you 
are  blind  without  me.  We  together,  we  are  power." 
He  crushed  her  hands  in  his.  "What !  Do  you  deny 
me?  I  am  yours  as  you  are  mine.  Mine — mine  to 
take  to  myself  and  use."  He  flung  her  hands  away 
and  grcisped  her  waist.  "You  know  it — ^yes,  you 
know  it,  body  and  soul !  They  cry  to  me.  Is  it  not 
true?"  She  was  panting  a  little  and  flushed.  She 
had  turned  her  face  from  him.  He  took  her  chin  in 
his  hand  .and  made  the  glistening  eyes  look  up  to  his. 
"You  shall  own  it,  by  Heaven!  Are  you  not  throb- 
bing for  me?  You,  the  force  of  life.  I  am  your 
guide.    Yield  yourself.    Yield !" 

She  looked  long,  silent.  .  .  .  Suddenly  she 
flung  her  arms  about  him  and  clasped  him  passion- 
ately to  her  breast,  crushing  herself  upon  the  harsh 
buff  coat.  He  drew  her  face  from  his  shoulder  and 
kissed  her  fiercely.    .    .    . 

Her  arms  fell  loose  about  him;  she  freed  herself 
and  stood  leaning  against  his  shoulder,  trembling  a 
little,  looking  away.     She  put  her  hand  to  her  hot 


144  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

cheeks  and  gave  a  queer,  miserable  laugh.  "Yes,  I 
am  yours,"  she  said.  His  arm  was  hard  about  her 
again,  and  at  the  touch  of  it  she  drew  to  him,  sob- 
bing. .  .  .  Calmer  at  last,  though  her  eyes  were 
dark  still  with  tears,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
strange  surprise.  "Ah,  you  were  wonderful!"  she 
said,  drawing  a  long  breath.  "I  did  not  know. 
.  .  .  You  have  made  me  not  like  myself.  .  .  . 
Ah !"  It  was  like  a  cry  of  pain.  Her  arm  closed  on 
him  with  nervous  strength.    "Do  not  fail  me !" 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.    .    .    . 

It  was  twilight  when  he  came  out.  He  saw  a 
lucid  violet  sky,  with  a  tiny  star  pale  in  it,  but  all 
the  west  was  mellow  yet,  and  the  afterglow  caressed 
wall  and  tower.  Rustling  by  each  narrow  lane  from 
the  river  meadows  a  warm  wind  came,  heavy  with 
the  sweet  breath  of  summer.  It  gave  him  the 
poignant  mingled  fragrance  of  young  grass  and  may 
and  lime,  and  it  bore  his  love  new  strength  and  his 
strength  new  love.  He  was  drunk  with  life.  Like 
one  who  walks  in  a  world  of  visions,  where  all  things 
are  of  his  realm,  where  all  is  subject  to  him,  he 
swung  through  the  throng  of  the  High  Street.  The 
swaggering  soldiers,  the  mincing,  laughing  girls, 
were  all  his  people  for  him  to  use.  He  was  lord  of 
all.  He  looked  up  and  laughed.  Darkly  clear,  like 
deep  water,  and  vast  beyond  the  sense  of  man,  rose 
the  dome  of  the  sky.  With  that  immensity  of  the 
world  he  was  akin;  the  strength  of  it  was  his 
strength;  he  had  the  secret  of  its  mystery  and  its 


ROYSTON    BREAKS    HIS    SWORD    145 

calm.  Long  he  stood  still,  looking  up  where  the 
gray  spire  of  St.  Mary's  sprang  glorious  to  the  white 
glow  of  the  evening  star.  ...  He  knew  the 
strength  of  man's  striving,  and  the  eternal  joy  of 
peace.  And  he  was  to  be  a  ruler  among  his  people; 
he  felt  the  surge  of  his  power  and  its  mastery. 

In  their  lodging,  in  an  upper  room  of  St.  Aldate's, 
Colonel  Royston  did  sword  exercise  by  candle-light. 
He  was  stripped  to  his  shirt  and  bare  armed,  and 
this  way  and  that  his  heavy  strength  swung  easily 
with  a  ripple  of  muscle. 

Stepping  light  as  a  child  in  a  hurry  of  joy,  Colonel 
Stow  ran  up  and  flung  the  door  wide.  "George !  I 
am  the  happiest  man  alive!"  With  the  draft  the 
candles  flickered  and  guttered  and  went  out,  and  in 
the  bewildering  light  from  the  open  door  Colonel 
Royston,  who  was  lunging,  misjudged  his  distance. 
His  sword  came  against  the  stone  of  the  chimney- 
piece  harshly.   "Is  it  broken?"  cried  Colonel  Stow, 

"At  the  point,"  said  Royston  out  of  the  dark. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

INGEMINATING   PEACE 

A  DISORDERLY  crowd  in  the  meadows  beyond 
"^^  Wadham  was  disturbed  by  Colonel  Stow,  He 
required  the  officers — nay,  any  officer — of  Audley's 
Horse.  And  the  troopers  of  Audley's  Horse,  loung- 
ing with  dice  and  tankard  before  their  slovenly  tents, 
bade  him  to  Beelzebub — with  whom  their  officers 
ought  to  be — or  to  the  Ship  in  the  Cornmarket — 
where  doubtless  they  were.  Colonel  Stow  rode  off. 
But  he  left  behind  him  Alcibiade  and  Matthieu- 
Marc,  and  they  were  soon  putting  up  a  tent.  They 
were  approached  by  some  slouching  troopers,  who, 
coats  all  undone,  hose  gaping  at  the  knee,  stood  aloof 
and  eyed  them  with  distrust,  muttering.  Then  one 
cried  out :  "Look  'e,  my  buck,  what  be  doing  here  ?" 
Alcibiade  had  a  mallet  in  his  mouth.  Matthieu- 
Marc,  the  pessimist,  made  the  reply.  "Gentlemans," 
said  he,  "what  does  any  one  do  here  ?  Tell  me,  then. 
I  do  not  understand  her,  your  war.  She  is  like  a 
bad  dream."  They  guffawed  at  him.  Nothing  could 
be  more  absurd  than  being  foreign,  "li  you  could 
see  yourselves  you  would  not  laugh  at  me,  coquins," 
said  Matthieu-Marc  bitterly.   "But,  yes!   I  am  droll! 

146 


INGEMINATING    PEACE  i47 

To  come  to  such  a  war,  such  soldiers!"  He  flung 
up  his  arms  at  them  and  turned  to  the  tent  again 
with  the  haste  of  despair. 

Alcibiade  straightened  himself,  grinned  at  them, 
jerked  his  thumb  knowingly  at  Matthieu-Marc,  and 
grinned  again.  "He  wants  everything  better  than 
it  is  made,  gentlemen.  Even  you.  It  is  an  impossi- 
ble, that  dear  Matthieu-Marc.  But  tell,  then" — Al- 
cibiade, too,  was  interested  in  these  unsoldierly  sol- 
diers— "at  what  hour  is  your  troop  drill,  and  your 
squadron  drill  how  often?" 

They  guffawed  again.    "You  be  an  innocent." 

"Innocent  of  all  but  sin,  gentlemen,"  said  Alci- 
biade politely.  "But,  enfin,  you  have  your  parades, 
parfois?" 

"Hark  'e,  innocent.  We  Cavaliers  do  need  no  for- 
eigners' drillings.    We  be  gentlemen.    We  do  fight." 

"I  felicitate  the  enemy,"  said  Alcibiade.  "And 
what  do  you  fight  for?" 

"Find  your  own  horse  and  two  shillings  a  day." 

Alcibiade  waved  his  hand.  "That  is  no  matter 
for  the  gentleman  soldado.  Your  cause,  messieurs, 
your  faith?" 

They  nudged  one  another  and  looked  at  one  an- 
other with  stupid  grins,  and  agreed  that  Alcibiade 
was  a  natural.  While  they  were  enjoying  the 
thought  of  that,  one  changed  the  subject  with  a  sim- 
ple rudeness.   "Who  be  that  tent  for?" 

"For  your  colonel,  gentlemen,"  said  Alcibiade, 
and  saluted  at  the  name. 


148  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

The  shaggy  jaws  dropped.  "Be  your  master  a 
foreigner  like  to  you  ?"  says  one  in  a  surly  amaze- 
ment. 

"He  is  English  altogether.  It  is  his  one  fault. 
But  he  will  make  you  a  regiment  such  as  your  coun- 
try has  not.    A  sweet  regiment." 

They  were  in  no  way  rejoiced.  "If  he  do  try  for- 
eign tricks  with  us,  I  am  sorry  for  he,"  says  one. 

"Messieurs,"  said  Alcibiade  sweetly,  "when  I  look 
at  you  I  also  am  sorry  for  him.  But  if  you  do  try 
tricks  with  him  I  am  very  sorry  for  you." 

They  gaped  and  glowered  at  Alcibiade  a  while 
and  then  slouched  off  to  impart  the  ill  news.  Alci- 
biade returned  to  the  tent  and  Matthieu-Marc.  Mat- 
thieu-Marc  was  interjectional  in  his  own  tongue. 
"What  a  nation !  What  animals !  What  a  war !  Tell 
me,  Alcibiade," — he  struck  an  attitude  of  despair, — 
"why  do  we  waste  on  these  stupids  our  skill?" 

"We  seek  always  honor.  If  we  can  made  soldiers 
of  these  it  is  honor  indeed,"  said  Alcibiade;  but 
even  he  was  something  chilled  by  these  slovenly 
Cavaliers.  "Myself,  I  would  like  to  know  why  these 
gentlemen  fight  at  all.  Now,  with  Gustav  one  fought 
for  the  religion,  and  with  Bernhard  to  make  him  a 
kingdom,  and  one  believed  in  them.  But  these — 
they  believe  in  nothing." 

"In  their  shilling  a  day,"  said  Matthieu-Marc,  and 
made  scornful  noises  like  a  sheep. 

"The  others,  the  enemies,  I  wonder  if  they  know 
why  they  fight,"  said  Alcibiade  pensively.     "It  will 


INGEMINATING    PEACE  149 

make  a  difference."  One  may  not  suppose  that  Mat- 
thieu-Marc,  or  even  Alcibiade,  always  ready  to  talk 
of  what  they  believed,  understood  the  profundities 
of  the  English  heart.  But  they  knew  the  temper  of 
conquering  armies,  and  even  Alcibiade  whistled  a 
mournful  lay  as  he  drew  the  guy  ropes  fast. 

There  were  others  jovial  enough.  The  officers  of 
Audley's  Horse  knew  no  care.  Their  credit  was 
good  yet  from  the  sack  of  Marlborough,  and  the 
ship  gave  them  all  they  needed.  Being  the  forenoon, 
it  was  no  more  than  a  gallon  of  spiced  wine  and  a 
bowl  of  ale  with  toasted  crabs  swimming  in  it.  Cor- 
net Sackville  and  Captain  Sedley  and  Captain  God- 
frey, three  lads  of  little  beard  but  with  faces  stained 
already  and  voices  going  husky,  were  pleased  to 
pipe  up : 

We  be  soldiers  three — 
Pardona  moy,  je  vous  an  prie 
Lately  come  forth  o'  tlie  low  country 
With  never  a  penny  of  money. 
Fa  la  la  la  lantido  dilly. 

And  the  others  broke  off  their  game  of  hazard  to 
beat  time  with  the  pewter : 

Here,  good  fellow,  I  drink  to  thee — 
Pardona  moy,  je  vous  an  prie 
To  all  good  fellows  wherever  they  be, 
With  never  a  penny  of  money. 
Fa  la  la  la  lantido  dilly. 


ISO  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

To  which  came  with  an  explosive  entry  Major 
Dick  Stewart.  He  flung  his  hat  down  on  the  dice  and 
himself  into  a  chair  that  creaked,  "Perdition,  lads! 
Ods  fire!  Damnation!"  and  he  drank  off  a  pint  of 
the  wine. 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Major,"  piped  Cornet  Sack- 
ville. 

"Ods  blood,  if  I  do  not  speak  for  you  all,  you  be 
no  men  but  so  many  sheep's  kidneys.  O  split  me 
that  I  should  live  to  see  it!  A  sour,  stiff-backed, 
swell-head  jack  pudding  from  Germany  to  command 
us — us!  O  burn  me,  'tis  enough  to  make  old  Sam 
Audley  ride  back  on  a  gridiron  to  card  him !" 

The  rest  had  no  mind  to  cool  his  wrath.  "Vie jo 
diablo"  says  Captain  Sedley,  who  had  a  rarefied 
taste  in  oaths,  "would  the  King  have  us  learn  the 
high  Dutch?'" 

"Nay;  the  calf  is  English  born.  A  Jeremiah 
Stow." 

"Jeremiah  Under-the-Fifth-Rib  Smite-and-Spare- 
Not  Barebones !  Zounds !  he  should  be  with  Mande- 
vil  and  Noll  Cromwell.  The  name  is  an  insult  to 
the  regiment." 

"Insult,  quotha !"  Major  Dick  Stewart  made  away 
with  another  pint.  "Ods  bones,  'tis  a  vile  outrage, 
and  the  lad  that  doth  not  resent  it  is  a  white-livered 
prigpter.  Are  we  rats  that  the  Palatine  should  foist 
a  broken  bully  from  Germany  on  us  ?  Was  there  no 
gentleman  in  the  regiment  good  enough  to  be  its 


INGEMINATING    PEACE  151 

colonel?  Od  rot  me,  lads,  we'll  roast  this  white 
cuckoo  roundly !" 

"Hoo!  Hoo!"  roared  Captain  Godfrey  in  the 
manner  of  one  cheering  on  dogs  to  bait  a  bear. 

The  door  was  opened.  Grave  and  entirely  calm, 
Colonel  Stow  gazed  upon  these  flushed,  agitated 
gentlemen. 

"Who  are  you,  milk  face?"  cried  Major  Stewart. 

"You  are  the  gentlemen  of  Audley's  Horse?"  said 
Colonel  Stow,  and  on  the  answering  shout  saluted. 
"I  have  the  pleasure  to  be  your  colonel." 

Major  Stewart  put  his  elbow  into  the  ribs  of  Cap- 
tain Godfrey,  who  did  the  like  for  Cornet  Sackville. 
The  gentlemen  of  Audley's  Horse  began  to  laugh  at 
Colonel  Stow,  and  laughed  in  volleys. 

Colonel  Stow  leaned  against  the  door-post,  ca- 
ressed his  beard  and  smiled  upon  them  kindly.  "I 
fear,"  said  he  in  the  first  lull,  "I  fear  I  shall  want 
new  officers  in  my  regiment."  He  looked  them  over 
with  plain  contempt  which  was  multiplied  as  his  eye 
rested  on  the  purple  amplitude  of  Major  Dick  Stew- 
art "Major,"  says  he  in  a  calm  small  voice,  "you 
have  rested  so  long  in  the  tavern  that  the  regiment 
has  forgot  what  you  look  like.   Go  and  show  them." 

Major  Dick  Stewart  flung  himself  back  in  his 
chair,  dashed  his  spurred  heels  into  the  floor  and 
was  understood  to  bid  his  colonel  seek  perdition. 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "If  I  do  not  obey  you  I 
am  a  Christian,"  said  he.  "But,"  and  the  tone  hard- 


152  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

ened,  "if  you  do  not  obey  me  you  are  broke.  Get 
to  your  duty."  The  major  glared  and  his  neck 
swelled.  He  seemed  to  desire  to  swear.  Colonel 
Stow  continued  to  regard  him  with  a  perfect  calm. 
He  heaved  himself  out  of  his  chair  and  stood  over 
Colonel  Stow.  "Make  me  a  return  of  the  damaged 
pistol  locks  by  sundown,"  said  Colonel  Stow  and 
turned  from  him  with  contempt.  Major  Stewart 
plunged  out 

The  rest  of  them  were  whispering  together.  Colo- 
nel Stow,  preserving  always  the  extreme  of  quiet 
in  his  manner,  walked  to  the  table,  picked  a  pipe 
with  care,  filled  it  from  his  own  silver  box,  and  lit 
it  and  composed  himself  comfortably  in  Major 
Stewart's  chair.  Then  the  little  Cornet  Sackville 
did  the  like  himself,  with  a  comical  affectation  of 
Colonel  Stow's  manner,  and  concluded  by  arranging 
himself  in  a  chair  precisely  opposite  Colonel  Stow, 
whom  he  ogled.  The  rest  ranged  themselves  in  a 
half  circle  and  stared  at  the  colonel  as  if  he  were 
a  show. 

"Tetedieu,"  says  Captain  Sedley,  "the  colonel  has 
very  large  feet." 

"But  how  sweet  a  nose,"  said  Cornet  Sackville  af- 
fectionately. 

"And  what  long  ears,"  cried  Captain  Godfrey. 

Colonel  Stow  smoked  on,  silent  and  calm. 

"Madonna,"  quoth  Captain  Sedley,  "he  is  quite 
tame,  our  colonel." 


INGEMINATING    PEACE  153 

"Blessed  are  the  meek,"  said  Cornet  Sackville 
with  unction. 

"Had  they  no  use  for  cowards  in  Germany,  Colo- 
nel?" inquired  Captain  Godfrey. 

Colonel  Stow  continued  to  smoke.  He  dropped 
his  words  lazily  between  puffs.  "It  is  very  natural 
you  should  all  desire  the  honor  of  crossing  swords 
with  me.  But  I  have  no  reason  to  think  you  deserve 
it.  I  shall  concede  you  a  chance.  Which  gentleman 
bears  himself  most  soldierly  in  the  next  fight  I  shall 
permit  to  try  my  sword  play.  You,  sirrah," — he 
singled  out  Captain  Godfrey, — "go  make  my  com- 
pliments to  Prince  Rupert  and  assure  him  in  my 
name  I'll  have  the  regiment  in  hand  by  to-morrow." 
Captain  Godfrey  gaped  at  him,  turned  for  inspira- 
tion to  his  comrades,  who  had  none,  and  shambled 
out. 

The  others,  on  whom  gloom  was  plainly  descend- 
ing, muttered  together  again.  "Sir,"  says  Captain 
Sedley,  with  an  aggrieved  air,  "sir,  we  would  have 
you  know  we  are  gentlemen  and  will  be  treated  for 
such." 

"You  shall  be  till  you  make  it  impossible,"  said 
Colonel  Stow  and  finished  his  pipe  .  .  .  Then  he 
rose.  "Well,  gentlemen,  you  will  understand  me  in 
time.  I  understand  you  now,  which  is  the  chief 
matter.    The  regiment  parades  at  five." 

Then  he  went  back  to  his  regiment  and  mingled 
with  the  troopers,  who  found  him  a  new  kind  of 


154  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

officer.  He  treated  them  as  men.  He  was  concerned 
for  their  fortunes.  He  desired  to  listen  to  their 
grumbles  of  rations  and  pay  and  was  not  fool 
enough  to  believe  all  they  said.  Such  a  colonel  was 
vastly  impressive  to  the  soldiers  of  the  army  of  the 
King. 

They  turned  out  on  parade  with  a  smartness  that 
disgusted  their  officers.  Then  Colonel  Stow  made 
an  oration.  "You  know  nothing  of  me,  gentlemen. 
I  have  fought  fourteen  campaigns  and  borne  my 
own  regiment  through  six.  It  is  my  habit  to  see  that 
my  regiment  fares  as  well  as  the  best  and  deserves 
it."  Whereafter,  till  sundown,  he  put  them  through 
a  drill  the  like  of  which  they  had  never  known.  It 
was  the  opinion  of  the  troopers,  when,  sweating  and 
stiff,  they  came  back  to  water  their  horses,  that  their 
colonel  was  a  tough  fellow.  But  their  colonel 
thought  less  of  them. 

In  days  that  followed  Colonel  Stow  taught  them 
tribulation.  They  were  schooled  as  never  soldiers 
of  the  King  had  been  schooled  before,  and  they  did 
not  affect  to  enjoy  it.  But  to  their  surprise  it  bred 
in  them  a  queer  surly  affection  for  him.  Indeed,  if 
he  harried  them  it  was  plainly  for  their  good,  and 
for  their  good  he  harried  others,  too.  My  Lord 
Percy,  who  was  master  of  the  victualling  as  well  as 
the  ordnance,  did  not  hide  his  disgust  with  a  colonel 
who  expected  something  of  him  and  got  it.  Before 
a  week  was  out.  Sir  James  Griffin,  the  paymaster, 
found  himself  recalling  the  parable  of  the  impor- 


INGEMINATING    PEACE  155 

tunate  widow.    And  Sir  James  was  a  man  of  re- 
ligion. 

The  officers  of  Colonel  Stow  approved  these  pro- 
ceedings in  no  particular.  They  condemned  him  for 
an  ungentlemanly  frowardness.  A  fellow  thus  trou- 
bled by  the  base  concerns  of  common  troopers  was 
plainly  of  low  blood.  But  they  found  it  extraordi- 
narily difficult  to  convince  Colonel  Stow  of  his  in- 
feriority. Attempts  to  make  him  ridiculous  recoiled 
like  an  ill-backed  petard  with  general  disaster.  The 
fascinating  dream  of  common  mutiny  was  shattered 
for  ever  by  Prince  Rupert's  jovial  confidence  to 
Captain  Godfrey  that  the  man  who  made  trouble 
for  Colonel  Stow  could  count  on  an  enemy.  The 
courtiers  might  mock  at  the  Palatine,  but  no  man 
in  the  army  invited  his  anger  till  there  were  twenty 
leagues  between  them.  Brave  souls  like  my  Lord 
Goring  might  dare  it  then.  So  Colonel  Stow's  of- 
ficers were  sulkily  submissive — an  air  which  became 
them  mighty  ill.  Such  of  them  as  were  sportsmen, 
and  had  some  feeling  for  their  trade,  saw  the  regi- 
ment quicken  under  his  hand  and  were  aggrieved 
with  themselves  for  being  pleased. 

What  Colonel  Stow  thought  of  his  regiment  and 
his  army  he  kept  to  himself.  For  it  was  as  strange 
an  army  as  king  ever  used  to  vindicate  his  majesty. 
There  were  indeed  those  in  it  who  believed  in  him 
passionately  as  in  their  God:  there  were  those  less 
devout  who  yet  counted  all  well  lost  for  him :  there 
were  more  who   felt  their  own  lordship  over  the 


156  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

common  herd  linked  indissolubly  with  his  king- 
ship and  who  fought  for  him  keenly  as  for  them- 
selves. But  these  all  told  made  but  few  and  the  mass 
of  that  army  cared  no  more  for  King  than  for  Puri- 
tan and  knew  less  of  war  than  the  morris  dance. 
They  were  soldiers  neither  from  a  fierce  zeal  nor 
by  trade.  They  were  the  loungers  at  bull  baitings, 
the  idlers  and  broken  men  of  village  and  town,  who 
ran  to  war  as  they  would  have  run  to  a  street  brawl. 
Never  an  army  knew  less  of  its  business,  and  its  gen- 
eral, the  Palatine,  was  not  the  man  to  make  good 
soldiers  out  of  sots  and  fools.  Nor  had  he  the 
chance.  He  must  needs  fret  the  best  of  his  strength 
away  in  fighting  the  good  gentlemen  of  the  council 
who  conceived  themselves  statesmen  and  generals 
by  divine  inspiration,  and,  having  but  little  matter 
of  state  left  them  to  occupy  with,  took  hold  of 
strategy  and  the  government  of  war.  Not  first  of 
generals  nor  last,  Rupert  found  his  most  trouble- 
some foes  of  his  own  party,  and  he  had  not  the 
temper  to  wear  them  out 

If  Rupert  had  a  plan  of  campaign,  my  Lord 
Digby  was  instant  to  the  King  with  another.  The 
King  spoke  both  fairly  and  thwarted  both.  That 
was  the  royal  conception  of  majesty — to  trust  no 
man  and  to  hold  himself  secret  from  every  man.  He 
moved  in  a  mysterious  way,  because  it  was  his  di- 
vine right,  and  certainly  he  performed  wonders. 
Inasmuch  as  he  was  a  monarch  and  God's  proxy, 
he  could  not  commit  his  sacred  designs  to  men  nor 


INGEMINATING    PEACE  157 

tell  them  the  truth.  Double-faced  through  good  and 
ill,  he  lamented  continually  the  harshness  of  his 
friends  and  solemnly  likened  his  foes  to  them  that 
slew  the  Christ. 

With  such  a  bloody  method  and  behavior 
Their  ancestors  did  crucify  our  Saviour! 

So  he  wrote  in  a  poem  that  would  be  blasphemous 
if  it  were  not  too  stupid.  It  was  ill  fighting  for  a 
King  who  could  not  conceive  that  any  man  had  the 
right  to  require  honesty  of  him. 

"By  God,  sir,"  cried  Rupert  once  in  a  blaze  of 
passion,  "the  chief  traitor  to  King  Charles  is  King 
Charles  himself."  Outwardly  that  was  forgiven, 
but  the  King  did  not  suffer  himself  to  forget.  Never 
afterward  could  he  believe  Rupert  loyal.  He  sol- 
emnly added  another  to  the  list  of  woes  which  he 
kept  with  zealous  precision :  played  the  kindly  uncle 
to  Rupert  and  believed  no  word  he  said.  It  may  not 
have  been  the  wise  way  for  a  king  to  deal  with  his 
general,  but  King  Charles  was  above  human  wis- 
dom. 

This  quarrel  came  when  the  King,  swayed  by  the 
sapience  of  my  Lord  Digby,  was  pleased  to  con- 
sider he  had  army  enough.  Rupert  desired  to  enroll 
new  regiments  of  foot.  My  Lord  Digby,  who 
grudged  everything  that  gave  the  Palatine  power, 
persuaded  the  King  that  if  the  army  could  not  sweep 
the  Puritans  away  it  was  the  fault  of  its  general 
and  that  the  money  for  the  new  regiments  were  bet- 


158  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

ter  spent  on  diplomacy ;  in  fact,  that  it  was  a  deroga- 
tion from  the  divine  majesty  to  believe  a  larger 
army  needed.  The  King  saw  in  this  queer  notion 
a  subtlety  and  it  captivated  him  as  usual. 

So  you  find  Colonel  Royston  with  a  commission 
to  form  a  regiment,  instructed  that  no  regiment  was 
to  be  formed.  In  a  cold  rage  he  went  off  to  Rupert. 
He  would  have  forced  a  quarrel,  he  says,  if  he 
could,  but  with  the  first  sneer  Rupert  himself  broke 
out:  "Thunder  of  God,  man,  swear  at  me  and  have 
done!  I  swear  at  myself  that  I  am  fool  enough  to 
stay  here.  If  you  have  any  honor,  lose  it;  if  you 
have  any  loyalty  break  it,  and  by  hell,  you  shall  live 
the  happier."  He  drank  heavily  from  the  flagon  at 
his  elbow.  When  the  King  played  him  false  he  was 
apt  to  fly  to  wine.  He  pushed  a  bottle  across  the 
table  to  Royston,  and  the  two  of  them  in  the  worst 
temper  with  all  the  world  got  vastly  drunk  together. 

You  conceive  Royston  in  a  sorry  state  the  next 
day.  The  gloom  of  things  he  beheld  in  aching  dis- 
comfort twice  as  black.  It  was  obvious  in  his  aspect. 
He  was  not  inclined  to  take  meekly  Colonel  Stow's 
shake  of  the  head  and  small  reproving  smile.  "A 
fine  lusty  fool  you  have  made  of  me,  Jerry,"  he 
growled  and  called  defiantly  for  a  tankard  of  dog's 
nose. 

Colonel  Stow  shrugged.  "Wine  is  a  mocker,"  he 
remarked. 

"And  what  a  murrain  have  I  to  do  but  drink?" 
cried  Royston. 


INGEMINATING    PEACE  159 

Colonel  Stow  opened  his  eyes  and  said  some- 
thing about  a  regiment. 

Royston  swore  profusely  at  the  world.  "Regi- 
ment! I  have  no  regiment  and  shall  have  none. 
By  Heaven,  I  was  a  fool  to  follow  you.  I  might 
have  known  you  would  feather  your  nest  and  I 
should  go  howling.  What  else  have  I  ever  had  by 
you?" 

Colonel  Stow  was  grave.  "It  may  be  so,  George," 
he  said  at  last  with  something  like  a  sigh.  "I  did 
not  think  to  have  heard  you  say  it." 

Royston  gave  an  ugly  laugh  and  drank  again. 
Then  he  put  down  the  tankard  with  a  bang.  "Bah, 
I  am  a  churl,  Jerry.  And  the  Palatine  has  a  better 
head  for  liquor  than  I.  But  my  temper  is  broke,  I 
think.  Faith,  there  is  some  reason  for  a  man  that 
has  been  diddled  like  me."  And  he  told  how  the 
King  had  forbidden  the  raising  of  one  regiment 
more. 

Colonel  Stow  cursed  his  King  for  a  fool.  Then 
he  looked  wistfully  at  his  friend.  "I  wish  to  God 
you  had  my  place,  George." 

"O,  have  done  with  that!"  cried  Royston  impa- 
tiently. "But,  i'gad,  Jerry,  I'll  wager  we  are  come 
to  the  wrong  side." 

"I'll  not  believe  that,"  said  Colonel  Stow.  "There 
are  men  worth  making  here.  But  faith,  George,  if 
you  wish  yourself  out  of  it,  I  can  scarce  bid  you 
stay,  now.    .    .    .    Will  you  go?" 

Royston  hesitated  some  while.    And  often  after- 


i6o  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

ward,  as  he  hints,  wished  that  he  had  taken  the  oc- 
casion and  given  his  friend  a  good-by.  But,  "I'll 
see  it  out,"  he  growled  and  he  gave  a  queer  laugh  of 
contempt. 

Colonel  Stow  gripped  at  his  hand  with  glad  en- 
thusiasm. "Faith,  you  were  made  for  a  friend, 
George,"  says  he  in  a  low  voice. 

Royston  laughed  again.  He  despised  himself  on 
many  counts.  It  was  a  foolishness  to  stay  where 
neither  money  was  to  be  won  nor  name.  It  was  a 
foolishness  to  be  governed  by  friendship.  It  was 
worst  foolishness  of  all  that  friendship  should  be 
mingled  with  what  mocked  it,  a  shameful  care  for 
the  woman  of  his  friend's  love.  Lucinda,  who  was 
surely  very  sorry  for  it  at  the  Last,  had  power  with 
Colonel  Royston  and  he  despised  himself  and  stayed 
— strange  company  for  those  gentlemen  volunteers, 
who,  splendid,  undisciplined  and  useless  as  brave, 
filled  up  the  army  of  the  King. 

The  gentlemen  volunteers  had  no  doubt  of  the 
issue  of  the  war.  It  was  as  certain  that  the  King 
would  conquer  as  that  neither  horse  nor  foot  could 
stand  up  for  their  charge.  They  looked  for  utter 
victory  and  the  stamping  out  of  Puritans  and  the 
rule  absolute  of  their  divine  King.  There  was  a  fair 
array  in  Oxford  of  some  such  faith  as  this.  Even 
Rupert  had  still  in  his  sanest  hours  a  vast  confidence 
in  himself.  The  rout  at  Marston  had  hurt  his  pride 
and  taught  him  the  grip  of  fear.  But  if  he  was 
soured  by  it,  he  was  soon  his  own  master  again.    He 


INGEMINATING    PEACE  i6i 

bore  his  work  hard  and  the  politicians  fretted  him 
into  black  hours,  but  he  could  not  long  together 
doubt  himself  an  unconquerable  artist  in  war.  He 
and  his  friends  all  counted  on  triumph  and  did  ear- 
nestly desire  it.  The  politicians,  my  Lord  Digby, 
Mr.  Hyde  and  the  rest,  quarreling  with  him  on  all 
else,  were  agreed  in  this.  The  unhindered  rule  of 
the  King,  no  less,  was  their  goal,  and  if  some  of 
them  seemed  to  march  to  it  by  strange  ways  they 
were  entirely  sure  of  attaining.  But  the  most  of 
them,  the  great  mass  of  the  army,  knew  no  such 
flaming  faith.  They  fought  because  it  was  the 
game,  and  when  the  game  was  no  more  amusing 
would  give  it  up  light  of  heart.  Whether  King 
ruled  or  Puritan  troubled  them  little.  England 
would  be  a  fat  pleasant  country  still. 

There  were  some,  too,  not  the  least  wise,  not  the 
least  honest,  who,  while  they  fought  against  the 
Puritan,  feared  the  triumph  of  the  King.  Men  who 
loved  England  and  sane  life  better  than  any  pas- 
sionate creed,  they  saw  no  end  to  the  war  in  the 
victory  of  either  army,  no  future  for  England  un- 
der either  sway.  It  is  not  always  the  men  of  low 
spirit  who  rank  with  the  Laodiceans. 

When  he  walked  the  meadows  at  dawn  one  day 
Colonel  Stow  saw  a  gentleman  of  a  disorderly  dress 
and  a  bent  back  who  went  uncomfortably.  His  black 
hair  was  all  unkempt,  his  face  of  an  unwholesome 
darkness.  He  knit  his  hands  behind  him  strenuously 
and  talked  to  himself.    The  matter  of  his  discourse 


i62  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

was  but  one  word.   In  a  shrill  and  sad  accent  he  in- 
geminated— "Peace !   Peace !" 

Colonel  Stow  passed  him  and  saw  the  melancholy 
of  his  eyes.  It  was  my  Lord  Falkland,  the  secre- 
tary of  state.  Colonel  Stow  watched  him  a  while 
and  went  away  thoughtful. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

MY   LORD   DIGBY   UPON    WOMAN 

"TTARRY,  you  are  a  fool,"  says  my  Lord  Digby 
■■--'-  in  a  didactic  manner. 

"Bah,  I  amuse  myself,"  quoth  my  Lord  Jermyn, 
and  flicked  his  ruffles. 

"Precisely,"  said  my  Lord  Digby. 

They  were  of  the  gay  company  in  the  Broad  Walk 
where  the  elms  were  newly  bright  and  the  wood 
pigeons  murmurous.  My  Lord  Jermyn  had  just 
been  displaying  himself  with  Lucinda,  beside  whose 
lithe  grace,  it  is  to  be  confessed,  he  was  comically 
brief.  Lucinda  was  remarkable  in  a  gown  of  sum- 
mer green  and  she  wore  it  worthily. 

"Woman,"  says  my  Lord  Digby  with  his  wise 
air,  "woman,  if  she  is  only  amusing,  is  not  even 
that.  She  is  not  worth  playing  with  unless  she  is 
too  dangerous  for  play.  You  play  with  all,  Harry, 
which  means  that  all  play  with  you." 

"You  are  like  a  rattle,"  said  my  Lord  Jermyn 
frankly.  "That  good  girl — who,  thank  Heaven,  is 
neither  good  nor  much  a  girl — is  like  a  hogshead 
of  Spanish  wine.    I  like  to  taste  her,  but  I've  no 

163 


i64  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

mind  to  take  the  whole  of  her.  O,  we  understand 
each  other." 

"My  dear  Harry,  you  never  understood  a  woman 
yet.  It  Is  why  you  have  such  success  with  them. 
Madame  Lucinda  is  a  bigger  soul  than  you.  She 
has  passions."  (My  Lord  Jermyn  chuckled  pro- 
fanely.) "If  you  were  a  man  with  red  blood  I 
might  be  sorry  for  you.  She  believes  in  herself.  It 
is  the  last  worst  fault  in  woman.  But  she  will  give 
a  man  or  two  magnificent  moments."  He  contem- 
plated my  Lord  Jermyn  benignly.  "Harry,  I  should 
like  to  see  you  in  a  tragedy.  You  would  be  amus- 
ing." 

"You  could  never  be  that,  George,"  said  my  Lord 
Jermyn  with  a  yawn  of  candor. 

But  my  Lord  Digby  was  born  for  the  didactic. 
"She  is  a  woman  of  the  grand  order.  She'll  use 
her  strength.  She  needs  all  men  to  be  her  slaves, 
and  knows  not  to  deny  herself.  A  woman  worth 
dying  for — if  you  are  of  that  temper.  She  is  not  for 
you,  Harry.  You  would  give  her  little  sport.  But 
she  is  real — real.  Non  equidem  iiivideo.  Miror 
magis.  I  adore  her,  but  I  have  no  use  for  her,  and 
pray  Heaven  she  hath  none  for  me.  I  find  mine  own 
occasion  in  one  of  your  shy  maids  who  scarce  knows 
what  womanhood  is  for — one  whose  glory  is  to 
spend  herself  in  a  man's  service,  not  a  man  in  hers — 
some  sweet,  virtuous  fool.  I  was  never  a  tragedian, 
Harry." 

"You  have  words  in  you,  not  blood,  George,"  said 


MY    LORD    DIGBY    UPON    WOMAN  165 

my  Lord  Jermyn,  who  honestly  conceived  himself 
a  creature  of  romance. 

It  was  growing  late  for  the  meadows.  Who  felt 
themselves  the  models  of  the  court  had  made  for  the 
town  already,  and  Lucinda  was  going,  too,  with 
Colonel  Stow  at  her  side.  You  may  guess  what 
brought  Colonel  Royston  to  mingle  with  that  array 
of  courtiers.  Lucinda  had  taught  him  weakness. 
He  would  not  go  seek  her  out.  What  a  pox  was  she 
to  him?  But  he  would  walk  where  she  might  be 
seen.  Why  the  fiend  should  he  run  away  from  a 
woman?  When  he  saw  her  swaying  on  Colonel 
Stow's  arm,  he  did  not  deign  to  see  her.  But  he 
heard  the  ring  of  her  laugh,  and  when  she  beckoned 
he  thrust  through  to  her  side. 

"You  make  yourself  a  stranger,  sir.  Or  is  it  an 
enemy?"  she  cried,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"It  is  an  indifferent,  madame,"  said  Colonel  Roy- 
ston, 

"And  that  is  a  challenge.  Nay,  but  first  I  chal- 
lenge you.  Doubtless  you  have  wished  your  friend 
joy  of  me.  Pray,  give  me  joy  of  your  friend."  It 
was  her  first  confession  of  surrender. 

Colonel  Royston  bowed.  "Do  you  doubt  your 
joy,  madame,  or  his?" 

She  looked  at  Colonel  Stow,  and  they  laughed  to- 
gether. "Nay,  we  know,"  she  said.  Then,  clinging 
to  Colonel  Stow's  arm  in  a  dainty  poise,  she  turned 
to  Royston.  "But,  indeed,  sir,  we  would  have  you 
glad  with  us." 


i66  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"You  are  marvelous  kind,"  said  Colonel  Royston, 
His  color  was  high,  and  he  would  not  look  in  her 
eyes. 

"I'faith,  we  are  greatly  happy,"  she  murmured, 
and,  drawing  close,  looked  up  at  Colonel  Stow  with 
a  strange,  tender  smile.  Then  she  gave  some  of  the 
kindness  of  it  to  Colonel  Royston.  "I  want  you  to 
know,"  she  said  simply. 

Royston  bowed  again.  His  lower  lip  was  drawn  in. 

"In  truth,  George  should  share  of  the  best  we 
have,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"There  is  much,"  said  Lucinda  in  a  low  voice. 

Colonel  Royston,  looking  up,  saw  their  eyes  meet 
again,  saw  her  hand  linked  close  and  pressing  his 
friend's. 

She  turned  quickly.  "Some  day,"  there  was  a 
laugh  in  her  voice,  "some  day,  sir,  mayhap  you  will 
know." 

"Oh,  you  expect  too  much  of  me,"  cried  Royston 
sharply. 

At  the  strange  tone  she  seemed  to  start  and  draw 
against  Colonel  Stow,  and,  so  swaying  with  him  step 
for  step,  looked  full  at  Royston.  "Nay,  I  think  I 
know  you,"  she  said  softly. 

"If  you  do,"  cried  Royston,  "you  know  why  I 
leave  you  now."  And  he  plunged  away  down  Mer- 
ton  Street. 

Lucinda  looked  surprised  at  Colonel  Stow,  who 
laughed.  "Nay,  dear,  I  think  we  be  too  much  lovers 
for  George,  who  is  not  in  that  way." 


MY    LORD    DIGBY    UPON    WOMAN  167 

"Is  it  so  indeed?"  said  Lucinda  innocently,  and 
was  very  kind  to  Colonel  Stow  thereafter. 

Five  and  twenty  miles  away  in  the  old  guild  house 
at  Aylesbury,  where  the  wounded  Puritan  soldiers 
made  hospital,  one  of  their  nurses  knelt  by  her  bed- 
side, praying.  With  a  work  that  left  her  scant  time 
to  think  of  herself  or  days  to  come,  Joan  Normandy 
felt  life  easier.  Still  there  were  hours  when  a  lonely 
fear  possessed  her,  and  she  found  no  help  but  in 
prayer.  It  was  not  much  for  herself.  She  had  no 
right  to  ask  of  God  an  easy  life.  If  she  could  not  be 
happy  in  her  lot,  the  fault  was  her  own,  and  she 
must  cure  herself.  She  prayed  for  him,  her  wonder- 
ful hero  of  the  springtime.  Colonel  Stow  never 
knew  how  magnificent  he  was  to  one  woman.  His 
gaiety  and  the  ease  of  his  strength  fascinated.  Even 
when  she  trembled  for  his  scorn  of  the  laws  she 
worshipped,  there  was  a  strange  glamour  about  him. 
He  was  clothed  with  the  glory  of  a  maid's  first 
dream  of  man.  In  the  tiny  bare  attic  she  knelt  all 
white  by  her  bed,  and  gave  herself  to  a  pure  yearn- 
ing for  him,  as  a  mother  yearns  over  her  child.  She 
had  no  thought  nor  hope  to  see  him  again  in  life, 
but  with  all  the  poM'er  of  her  being  she  prayed  for 
him,  she  pleaded  with  God  in  tears  and  trembling 
that  he  might  be  safe  and  given  a  good  happiness.  It 
was  of  her  faith  that  one  soul  given  utterly  to  striv- 
ing for  another's  good  might  prevail  with  God.  She 
tried. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

NEWBURY   VALE 

""DEFORE  this  business  be  done,  we  shall  be  the 
-■-^  longest-winded  army  in  England,"  wrote  Sir 
William  Waller  to  his  masters,  the  Parliament.  He 
was  maneuvering  across  the  middle  west  with  an 
army  of  infantry  against  the  King's  horsemen.  He 
complains,  moreover,  that  when  he  rebuked  his  men 
they  sang  to  him,  and  the  strain  was  this,  a  low- 
song: 

Home!    Home!    We  would  be  home! 

Ha'  done  with  your  thorough, 

Flite  ye  the  morrow, 

We'll  drive  our  furrow 
Home!    Home! 

The  hint  was  broad.  "An  army  compounded  of 
these  men  will  never  go  through  with  your  service," 
Sir  William  Waller  protested.  But  all  the  while  the 
men  who  had  overthrown  Rupert  on  Long  Marston 
Moor,  the  Ironside  cavalry,  were  drawing  slowly 
south.  They  suffered  from  only  one  disease — their 
general,  my  Lord  Manchester.  His  lieutenant  gen- 
eral, a  Mr.  Cromwell  of  Huntingdon,  mentioned  it. 

i68 


NEWBURY    VALE  169 

While  Waller  was  amid  these  pathetic  difficulties, 
and  my  Lord  Manchester  in  no  hurry  to  help  him, 
the  King  was  fighting  my  Lord  Essex  in  a  comical 
campaign  that  made  Rupert  swear  but  did  little  else 
good  or  ill. 

It  served  Colonel  Stow,  however.  His  regiment, 
exercised  daily  in  tactic,  not  tried  too  soon  by  the 
stern  shock  of  a  stricken  field,  grew  ready  and 
quick.  He  began  to  be  proud  of  it,  and  the  men, 
who  found  he  never  risked  them  idly  and  always 
had  a  care  for  them,  approved  him  mightily.  Even 
his  officers  were  learning.  All  went  well.  But  he 
discovered  with  surprise  that  half  England  cared 
nothing  for  the  war.  The  country  folk  had  an  im- 
partial disgust  for  Cavalier  and  Puritan.  The  Cav- 
alier fed  on  them  without  paying,  the  Puritan  cut 
down  the  May-pole  and  stopped  the  morris  dance. 
How  should  they  care  for  either  victory?  What 
hope  for  them  in  the  rule  of  plunderer  or  the  rule 
of  killjoy?  Colonel  Stow,  watching,  understanding 
— it  was  the  best  part  of  his  mind  that  he  understood 
unlike  men — asked  himself  sometimes  what  he  had 
to  make  in  it  all.  But  he  seemed  to  see  clear.  With 
such  fair-weather  armies — he  had  not  met  the  Iron- 
side cavalry — the  war  must  drag  out  long,  and  in  a 
long  war  men  who  knew  their  trade  would  come  to 
power.  He  saw  himself  a  conqueror  among  the  con- 
querors, a  master  in  England  and  Englishmen  glad 
of  him. 

In  fine,  he  esteemed  himself  still  highly.     It  was 


170  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

a  state  necessary  to  his  happiness.  Lucinda  had 
long  letters  of  joy.  Do  not  doubt  that  she  was 
happy,  too.    I  think  she  believed  in  him  always. 

The  wind  of  Waller's  army  held  out.  My  Lord 
Manchester,  "sweet,  meek  man,"  stayed  his  hand 
from  breaking  the  head  of  his  lieutenant  general, 
and  joined  them  at  Reading  before  Rupert  and  the 
King  could  eat  them  up.  There  was  marching  and 
counter-marching  in  the  vale  of  Kennet,  and  at  last^ 
under  the  wooded  hills  that  sheltered  Newbury,  the 
outposts  met,  and  the  Puritan  troopers  flung  them- 
selves from  the  saddle  and  knelt  to  thank  God  for 
the  sight.  There  was  no  doubt  of  battle.  Crom- 
well was  there,  and  Rupert. 

Where  Speen  Hill  rises  above  the  meeting  rivers 
Rupert  chose  the  ground,  and  through  an  autumn 
day  the  King's  infantry  scarred  the  hill's  wealth  of 
timber  with  a  breastwork.  Below,  in  the  wooded 
angle  between  the  clear  waters  of  Lambourne  and 
Kennet,  musketeers  lined  the  hedge-rows,  and  in  the 
open  meadows  under  the  guns  of  Donnington  castle 
the  horsemen  awaited  their  chance.  It  was  a  position 
folly  could  hardly  weaken.  Colonel  Royston,  rid- 
ing along  the  front  with  his  friend,  allowed  himself 
to  admire.  "If  they  have  any  gentleman  that  is  fool 
enough  to  fight,  he  will  break  his  nose  here,  Jerry," 
said  he. 

"There  is  Cromwell,  whom  the  Palatine  calls 
Ironside,"  said  Colonel  Stow.  "They  say  he  is  very 
hot  in  the  charge.     I'gad,  I  need  some  faith  to  be- 


NEWBURY    VALE  171 

lieve  it,  for  when  I  knew  him  in  Stoke  he  was  half 
a  natural  by  reason  of  too  much  religion." 

Colonel  Royston  laughed.  "Jerry,  my  dear,  pray 
for  a  few  fanatics.  None  else  will  dare  come  at 
you." 

But  Colonel  Stow  was  something  pensive.  "  'Tis 
a  footman's  battle,  I  fear.  I  find  no  space  for  a 
shock.  These  hedge-rows  are  mighty  neat  for  your 
musketeers,  but  'tis  no  gentlemanly  way  of  fighting. 
Gustavus  for  me,  and  a  brigade  at  speed." 

Colonel  Royston  shook  his  head.  "A  wasteful 
tactic,  Jerry.  Give  me  Scotch  musketeers  and  Swed- 
ish pikes,  and  I'll  break  the  best  charge  you  bring. 
It's  an  archaic  beast,  your  horseman.  The  world  is 
the  footman's  now." 

"Alack  for  a  dull  gray  world,"  sighed  Colonel 
Stow. 

"Faith,  you  are  born  out  of  time,  Jerry.  You 
should  have  ridden  with  Monsieur  Amadis  of  Gaul, 
or  the  late  Lancelot  of  the  Lake.  You  like  your 
fights  romantic.     I  only  want  to  win." 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "Ah,  I  want  much  more 
than  that." 

Royston  looked  at  him  queerly.  "Yes,  you  want 
too  much,  you  and  she." 

They  parted  soon,  and  in  silence,  and  Colonel 
Stow  came  back  to  his  quarters  at  Donnington, 
shadowed  with  solemnity. 

Major  Dick  Stewart  was  awaiting  him,  more  flam- 
boyant than   for   many   a  day.     "Aha,   Colonel," 


172  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

says  he,  with  a  knowing  grin  at  Colonel  Stow's 
grave  face,  "you  apprehend  a  battle,  eh  ?" 

"Nay,"  said  Colonel  Stow  sweetly,  "my  appre- 
hension is  there  may  be  none." 

"Ay,  you  burn  for  one,  indeed." 

Colonel  Stow  opened  his  eyes,  "I  had  hoped  you 
had  learned  your  position.  Major,"  he  said  sadly. 

"And  I  thought  you  would  forget  your  promise, 
ods  bones!"  cried  the  major  in  triumph, 

"Oh."  Colonel  Stow  understood.  "I  am  engaged 
to  cross  swords  with  the  gentleman  of  the  regiment 
who  does  most  gallantly.  But  indeed.  Major,  I 
never  hoped  for  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you." 

Major  Stewart  snarled. 

"I  wonder  you  think  this  manner  worth  while," 
said  Colonel  Stow  pensively.  "It  does  not  amuse 
me,  and  appears  painful  to  yourself." 

"Zounds,  sir,"  cried  the  major,  "we  shall  see  if 
you  can  jeer  to-morrow." 

"I  warn  you,  'tis  in  battle  I  am  most  satiric,"  said 
Colonel  Stow. 

The  major  flung  away  from  him,  muttering. 

On  the  next  day,  when  dawn  broke  dull  red,  the 
King's  men  saw  a  brigade  counter-marching  round 
the  base  of  the  hills  by  Winterbourn  to  take  them  in 
the  rear.  At  the  same  time  there  was  a  feint  upon 
the  front  by  some  horsemen,  who  got  nothing  but  a 
rough  handling  for  their  pains.  The  growing  light 
showed  hill  and  valley  alive  with  men.  It  was  a 
strange,  clitickefed  array,  mbre  like  a  dozen  armies 


NEWBURY   VALE  173 

than  two,  for  countless  colors  and  fashions  and 
strange  panoplies  broke  the  dull  peace  of  meadow 
and  hedge-row.  Trooper  and  footman  of  those  nota- 
ble Ironside  regiments  of  the  Eastern  Counties  were 
indeed  alike  in  tawny  red.  Rupert's  horsemen  had 
no  color  save  blue  and  steel.  But  the  rest  of  the 
army  was  any  color,  and  all  colors — orange  and 
green  and  white,  violet  and  gray,  as  it  were  a  mas- 
querade on  the  hills.  Only  my  Lord  Manchester 
had  made  his  men  wear  green  boughs  in  their 
morions,  so  that  they  marched  like  a  copse  at  war. 

The  matches  were  blazing  along  the  hedge-rows. 
The  musketeers  filled  their  mouths  with  bullets  and 
felt  the  powder  cases  in  their  rattling  bandoleers. 
Already  the  Puritan  pikemen  were  closing  upon 
Speen  Hill.  The  quarter  cannon  and  sakers  behind 
the  breastwork  there  began  to  fire,  and  played  hard, 
and,  quoth  Sir  William  Waller,  "they  made  the 
ground  mighty  hot."  But  though  their  ranks  were 
rent,  the  pikemen  worked  on  steadily,  and  when  it 
came  to  push  of  steel  the  musketeers  had  no  hope 
to  stand  against  them,  but  ran  from  hedge  to  hedge. 
Slowly  the  green  boughs  won  to  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
and  Skippon,  the  sergeant  major  general,  who  knew 
his  trade,  halted  them  there  a  while,  though  the 
cannon  were  fierce  upon  them.  Then  he  raised  the 
shout,  "The  sword  of  the  Lord!"  and  sprang  for- 
ward up  the  hill.  By  the  breastwork  there  was  a 
long,  stern  fight.  They  had  no  room  for  skilled 
tactic,  or  the  power  of  massed  numbers;  it  was  man 


174  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

for  man,  and  the  victory  to  the  stronger,  stubborner 
men.  The  King's  men  had  courage.  There  was  no 
question  of  that  in  the  wildest,  riotous  regiment. 
But  it  needed  more  than  courage  and  a  sportsman's 
joy  of  a  fight  to  hold  out  till  dark,  thrusting  and 
bearing  the  thrust  of  the  eighteen-foot  pikes.  While 
the  sun  was  still  high,  the  breastwork  was  won,  and 
the  Puritans  came  over  it,  singing  a  psalm : 

Lord,  Thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place 

In  generations  all. 
Before  Thou  ever  hadst  brought  forth 

The  mountains,  great  or  small. 

They  "clapped  their  hats  on  the  touch-holes  of 
the  guns  to  claim  them  for  their  own,"  halted  to 
form  again,  and  charged  on  down  the  hill  after  the 
King's  men.  But  there  was  to  be  no  easy  victory. 
As  soon  as  they  were  off  the  hillside  the  hedge- 
rows rattled  musketry,  and  their  front  was  smitten 
away.  Still  they  had  the  heart  to  force  advance, 
but  it  was  difficult  and  slow,  and  the  night  near. 

Down  in  the  vale  Rupert's  horsemen  faced  Crom- 
well. This  way  and  that  they  moved  through  the 
meadows,  each  seeking  his  chance  to  take  the  other 
at  advantage.  Most  of  Rupert's  men  were  cursing 
the  tactic  and  delay,  and  around  Colonel  Stow 
his  officers  babbled  of  white-livered,  water-blood 
Roundheads.  Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "There's  a 
soldier  commands  there,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  nod- 


NEVv^BURY    VALE  175 

ding  to  the  green  boughs  of  the  Puritan  troopers. 
"A  man  who  knows  when  not  to  fight." 

"Your  own  kind  of  courage,  Colonel,"  Major 
Stewart  sneered. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  eying  him  serene- 
ly, "for  I  know  how  to  fight.  .  .  .  Oh,  zounds, 
the  fool !" 

It  was  a  tribute  to  my  Lord  Cleveland.  My  Lord 
Cleveland  suffered  from  the  ability  to  believe  him- 
self a  leader  of  cavalr>^  He  had  chosen  to  fling  his 
regiment  at  Cromwell,  and  the  lieutenant  general, 
who  desired  nothing  better,  split  his  brigade  in  two 
and  let  a  half  fall  on  either  flank  of  my  Lord  Cleve- 
land's unhappy  men.  They  had  been  utterly  over- 
whelmed but  for  Colonel  Stow,  who  swung  his 
regiment  round  and  made  as  if  he  would  take  the 
Puritans  in  rear.  They  faced  about  to  meet  him,  their 
trap  was  spoiled,  and  my  Lord  Cleveland's  men 
straggled  back  in  disorder.  But  their  colonel  had 
gone  down  in  the  charge,  and  their  standard  of  a 
lion  with  a  beagle  baying  at  him  was  gone  to  swell 
the  Puritan  trophies.  Colonel  Stow  drew  off.  There 
had  been  no  more  than  some  snapping  of  pistols  be- 
tween the  front  ranks. 

There  was  naught  to  be  won  of  a  charge,  and  soon 
either  side  fell  back.  Twilight  was  darkening. 
"Rot  me!"  growled  Major  Stewart,  "one  runs  no 
risks  in  this  regiment.  Od  burn  me,  not  one  poor 
charge !" 

Colonel   Stow   was  looking  at  the  standardless. 


176  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

shattered  ranks  of  my  Lord  Cleveland.  "Nay,  we'll 
not  lose  our  honor,"  said  he. 

Major  Stewart  laughed.    "J  thought  we  had." 

"You  are  perhaps  a  poor  judge  of  honor,  Major," 
said  Colonel  Stow  sweetly. 

The  major  snarled.  "Well,  Colonel,"  says  he, 
with  a  scornful  truculence,  "and  since  you  are  so 
honorable  to-night,  whom  do  you  name  to  fight  you 
— which  is  the  happy  man  ?" 

"How  can  I  tell?"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"Fgad,  I  thought  as  much.  Nay,  we'll  not  be 
bubbled  so.   Which  did  most  gallantly,  you  said." 

"And  that  is  for  you  gentlemen  to  say,"  said 
Colonel  Stow  sweetly. 

"Ods  fire,  with  you  in  command,  no  gentleman 
has  a  chance  to  be  gallant." 

"You  see  none?"  Colonel  Stow  inquired  with  some 
interest,  and  when  Major  Stewart  denied  it  with 
oaths  he  laughed. 

"Why,  sir,  do  you  mean  to  slide  out  of  your  prom- 
ise?" cried  the  major. 

"You  shall  confess  I  have  kept  it,"  said  Colonel 
Stow. 


4^ 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

MISTRESS    NORMANDY   SEES   A   FRIEND 

pRINCE  RUPERT  knew  and  Cromwell  knew 
-*-  that  those  stubborn  Puritan  pikemen  who  won 
Speen  Hill  had  decided  the  issue  of  the  day.  Crom- 
well and  Rupert  both  looked  often  anxious  to  the 
main  body  of  the  Parliament  army  about  Newbury, 
where  my  Lord  Manchester  had  command.  If 
Manchester  would  but  hurl  his  brigades  on  the 
King's  infantry,  they  could  be  taken  in  front  and 
rear  and  trampled  to  powder.  With  fierce  messages 
Cromwell's  orderlies  sped  to  my  Lord  Manchester 
again  and  again.  But  my  Lord  Manchester,  that 
"sweet,  meek  man,"  would  not  be  so  harsh  as  to  de- 
feat his  foe.    Twilight  fell  on  a  half-fought  fight. 

Prince  Rupert,  unlike  my  Lord  Manchester,  could 
make  up  his  mind.  He  saw  swiftly  that  the  weak 
position  left  him  was  not  to  be  held,  and  swiftly 
came  his  orders  for  retreat.  The  gentleman  who 
brought  them  to  Colonel  Stow's  regiment  could  not 
find  Colonel  Stow,  and  Major  Stewart  swore  by  his 
honor  and  much  else  that  the  white  cuckoo  had  de- 
serted. 

If  he  had  seen  the  going  of  Colonel  Stow  he  would 
177 


178  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

have  been  more  sure  of  it.  Colonel  Stow  was  pos- 
sessed with  an  idea  that  pleased  him,  and  it  took 
him  a  strange  course.  "The  best  of  a  soldier  that  I 
have  known,"  Colonel  Royston  calls  him,  "and  al- 
ways of  a  great  sanity,"  and  Royston,  though  a 
friend,  was  no  fool.  But  Colonel  Stow  lived  a  sol- 
dier of  dreams.  There  were  hours  when  he  must 
fling  sane  duty  away  and  ride  with  romance.  A 
deed  of  wild  splendor  could  allure  the  man  whose 
nature  would  not  let  him  waste  a  troop  in  rashness. 
He  loved,  doubtless — as  in  a  rare  sneer  at  his  friend 
Colonel  Royston  hints  somewhere — he  loved  to  con- 
ceive himself  decorated  with  a  knight  errant's  glory. 
He  was  a  subject  of  vanity.  But  chiefly  he  desired 
this  wild  work  for  the  throb  of  it,  the  instant  peril  of 
all.    That  made  for  him  the  best  of  life. 

So  you  see  him  in  the  twilight,  with  a  Puritan's 
green  bough  in  his  hat,  and  a  Puritan's  red  cloak 
about  him,  working  craftily  round  to  the  rear  of 
Cromwell's  troopers.  They  were  dismounted  and 
loosening  girths,  and  making  ready  to  bivouac. 
Colonel  Stow  came  through  them  at  an  easy  pace, 
whistling  the  tune  Martyrdom. 

"Whence,  brother?  And  with  what  fortune?" 
cried  a  swart  troop  sergeant. 

"Praise  the  Lord !"  Colonel  Stow  exhorted  him. 
"From  Sir  William  Waller,  to  whom  the  Lord  hath 
been  very  gracious.    What  fortune  with  you?" 

The  troop  sergeant  groaned  in  spirit.  "The  Lord 
hath  not  suff"ered  us  to  do  an  execution.     Wc  are 


JOAN    NORMANDY    SEES    A    FRIEND     179 

miserable  sinners  and  unworthy.  We  have  gone  to 
and  fro  in  the  earth,  and  walked  up  and  down  in  it, 
yet  we  have  accomplished  nothing  save  some  small 
overthrow  of  one  regiment  of  the  men  of  Belial, 
from  whom  we  took  their  colonel  and  their  stand- 
ard." 

"A  standard!"  cried  Colonel  Stow  in  righteous 
ecstasy.     "Nay,  but  you  jest." 

The  sergeant  groaned.  "What  have  I  to  do  with 
jesting?    I  am  a  vessel  of  wrath." 

Colonel  Stow  asked  pardon  for  mistaking  him. 
"Whose  was  this  standard,  then?" 

"Man,  what  do  I  know?  We  fight  not  for  such 
gauds.  'Tis  sent  to  the  man  Henry  Montagu,  whom 
the  children  of  this  world  call  Earl  of  Manchester." 

"And  the  children  of  God  call  fool,"  said  Colonel 
Stow,  and  won  a  sour  smile  from  the  sergeant,  and 
rode  on.    The  affair  prospered  excellently. 

The  darkness  was  falling  swift,  and  the  fires  made 
black  shadows  that  Colonel  Stow  used  well.  Him- 
self scarce  seen,  he  watched  the  gathering  crowds 
and  their  bearing,  and  caught  scraps  of  talk.  They 
fascinated  him,  these  soldiers  who  could  not  joke. 
He  saw  them  through  the  lurid,  smoky  light,  belts 
loosed,  corselets  unlaced,  but  with  no  joy  in  their 
ease.  They  crowded  round  the  soup  pots  to  argue 
whether  the  Lord  was  displeased  with  them  for  fro- 
wardness,  or  my  Lord  Manchester,  like  Saul  who 
slew  not  Agag.  He  caught  the  strong  accent  of  his 
own   Buckinghamshire,  and  checked  a  moment  to 


i8o  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

hear  Ingoldsby's  regiment  holding  a  prayer-meet- 
ing till  their  pots  boiled.  They  were  doubtless  ludi- 
crous, but  that  was  not  what  troubled  Colonel  Stow. 
They  were  too  much  in  earnest  to  be  jaleasant  ene- 
mies.   He  liked  a  little  humor  upon  the  other  side. 

Again  and  again  a  patrol  challenged  him  for  his 
errand  and  was  satisfied  to  hear  that  he  came  from 
Sir  William  Waller.  Colonel  Stow  always  made 
one  lie  take  him  as  far  as  it  would.  His  first  dan- 
ger came  as  he  drew  upon  the  houses  of  Newbury 
town.  He  heard  the  ring  of  his  own  voice  before 
him  and  had  almost  ridden  against  his  brother. 
There  was  a  party  of  Puritan  officers  too  much  con- 
cerned in  their  own  debate  to  mark  Colonel  Stow's 
sudden  break  of  pace  behind  them.  Colonel  Stow 
heard  that  his  brother  was  displeased  with  the  world 
and  my  Lord  Manchester.  The  sentiment  appeared 
general. 

Newbury  town  was  noisily  alive.  The  streets 
throbbed  with  chatter  and  argument.  Soldier  and 
citizen  wrangled  vehemently  in  biblical  phrase  on 
the  fortune  of  the  day  and  the  morrow,  and  Colonel 
Stow  had  no  difficulty  in  avoiding  attention.  He 
learned  easily  that  my  Lord  Manchester's  quarters 
were  at  the  Sun  and  saw  with  a  glad  relief  his 
brother  turn  into  the  courtyard  of  the  Blue  Bear. 

The  market-place  was  half  light  with  the  glare 
of  lanterns  and  torches  and  by  the  door  of  the  bor- 
ough hall,  made  hospital  for  the  hour's  need,  grave 
browed  nurses  stood  waiting  for  the  first  convoy 


JOAN    NORMANDY    SEES    A    FRIEND    i8i 

of  wounded.  There  was  one  who  as  Colonel  Stow 
turned  from  the  bridge  and  rode  into  the  light  gave 
a  strange  choked  cry  of  alarm  and  caught  her 
breast.  "It  is  nothing,  it  is  nothing,"  she  gasped  as 
the  others  turned  to  her.  "A  tiny  shooting  pain.  It 
is  gone.  It  is  past."  She  was  Joan  Normandy.  Colo- 
nel Stow  heard  her  cry  and  the  murmuring  voice 
and  was  most  careful  not  to  see  her.  But  the  heart 
in  him  beat  queerly.  Some  tone  in  that  cry  troubled 
him.  And  Joan  Normandy  thanked  God  that  he  had 
not  heard  and  gazed  after  him  wide-eyed  and  white, 
trembling.  He  frightened  her  with  a  wild  hope.  He 
wore  the  Puritan  tokens,  the  Puritan  colors;  and 
still  she  dared  not  let  herself  believe  that  he  had 
given  himself  to  her  faith.  That  were  too  great  a 
joy.  But  he  was  near,  he  was  near,  and  her  blood 
surged  quick  and  she  strained  after  him. 

Colonel  Stow,  brazen  enough,  rode  up  to  the  door 
of  the  Sun,  my  Lord  Manchester's  inn,  dismounted 
and  gave  his  horse  in  charge  to  one  of  the  lads 
of  the  town  who  gaped  about  the  doorway.  A  mo- 
ment he  stood  and  with  swift  eye  considered  the 
position.  My  Lord  Manchester  had  no  more  guard 
than  a  single  sentry  at  his  door.  The  market-place 
had  a  hundred  tiny  crowds  of  soldier  and  citizen 
all  chattering  together,  but  there  was  not  so  much 
as  a  sergeant's  guard  under  arms.  It  promised 
well.  Colonel  Stow  turned  by  the  broad  gateway  to 
the  Sun. 

He  approached  the  sentry  with  a  flattering  air 


i82  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

of  confidence.  "Hark  ye,  brother,  where  will  I 
find  the  captain  of  the  guard?" 

The  sentry  permitted  himself  to  grin.  "Do  'e 
want  your  head  bit  off?" 

"Nay,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  "I  have  an  unreason- 
able kindness  for  it." 

"Then  keep  yourself  away  from  Captain  Billy 
Vaughan,"  said  the  sentry. 

Colonel  Stow  scratched  his  nose.  "There  is 
doubtless  some  one  more  amiable?"  he  suggested. 

"And  if  so  be  there  be,"  said  the  sentry,  looking 
excessively  wise,  "why  should  I  tell  you?"  Colonel 
Stow  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  The  sentry 
grinned  more  broadly.  Colonel  Stow  was  relieved 
to  find  some  one  corruptible  in  this  righteous  army. 
A  shilling  passed,  "Do  'e  ax  for  Sergeant  Bob 
Willey.     He'll  not  be  far  from  the  tap." 

Colonel  Stow  proceeded,  following  the  smell  of 
liquor.  Not  indeed  in  the  tap,  lest  discipline  should 
be  shamed,  but  within  easy  reach  of  it  he  found  a 
red  round  man  with  a  sergeant's  orange  scarf  on  his 
buff  coat.  "Sergeant  Willey?"  quoth  he  and  the 
round  man  wheezed.   "May  I  speak  with  you?" 

"Surely,"  said  Sergeant  Willey. 

"Shall  we  crack  a  quart  first?" 

"Surely,"  said  Sergeant  Willey  and  grinned.  "If 
you  pay  for  it." 

Colonel  Stow  remarked  to  himself  that  my  Lord 
Manchester's  quarters  had  a  different  atmosphere 
from  the  rest  of  the  army.     He  drew  Sergeant  Wil- 


JOAN    NORMANDY    SEES    A    FRIEND    183 

ley  away  to  a  corner  and  they  burled  their  noses 
in  tankards  of  the  oldest  October.  Then,  "  'Tis  a 
little  affair  of  my  own,"  says  Colonel  Stow  myste- 
riously. "I  am  a  trooper  of  Ireton's  and  when  the 
malignants  charged  us  to-day  I  had  the  luck  to 
win  one  of  their  standards  by  a  thrust  in  the  short 
ribs.  Well,  the  standard,  my  quartermaster  saith, 
he  sent  to  my  lord  here.  But  I  have  found  a  low 
fellow  of  Cromwell's  regiment  swears  there  was 
but  one  taken  to-day  and  he  took  it.  Prithee,  tell 
me,  that  I  may  call  him  liar,  what  have  you  here." 

"There  is  but  one  brought  in,  my  bully.  A  thing 
of  a  red  lion  with  a  yellow  dog  that  yelps  at  him." 

"'Tis  the  true  likeness  of  mine!"  cried  Colonel 
Stow,  in  an  ingenuous  rage.  "Verily,  I  will  chas- 
tise that  vain  boaster  with  whips  and  with  scorpions. 
Prithee,  sir,  help  me  to  a  sight  of  this  that  I  may 
know  it  and  be  sure.  I  would  not  lightly  make 
strife  in  the  army  of  the  Lord." 

"O,  faith,  if  you  are  for  swingeing  one  of  Noll 
Cromwell's  varlets  none  of  my  lord's  men  will  balk 
you.  I'll  help  you  to  the  rag,  my  bully.  Follow 
on,  and  good  luck  to  your  quarrel,  follow  on." 

He  led  the  way  up  to  a  disorderly  guard-room 
where  half  a  dozen  troopers  lolled  and  snored  and 
drank.  He  took  from  a  corner  the  tattered  stand- 
ard and  shook  it  out  carelessly.  It  was  stiff  with 
blood.  "There  is  the  ugly  rag,"  said  he  with  a 
sneer  of  a  laugh  at  it  and  flung  it  down  on  the 
floor.     Colonel  Stow's  eyes  flashed.     The  soul  of 


i84  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Sergeant  Willey  annoyed  him.  "Is  that  yours,  my 
buck  ?"  quoth  Sergeant  Willey  and  stirred  the  blood 
stained  folds  with  his  foot. 

Colonel  Stow  picked  it  up  with  a  gentle  care  and 
spread  it  wider,  drawing  back  with  that  pretence  to 
the  door.  "Yes,  it  is  mine,"  he  said  gravely,  and 
on  the  word  smote  Sergeant  Willey  down  with  the 
staff  and  darted  out,  slamming  the  door.  He  took 
the  stairs  in  a  leap,  he  rushed  across  the  courtyard. 
Shouts  arose  behind  him  and  the  hea\y  thud  of  the 
troopers.  "Halt  there!  Seize  him!  Seize  him!  A 
malignant!  Seize  him!"  And  under  the  gateway 
a  man  did  seize  him.  Colonel  Stow  found  himself 
gazing  close  into  a  red  fleshy  face  from  which  gray 
eyes  flashed  pale.  It  was  Cromwell  himself.  Colonel 
Stow  put  the  staff  of  the  standard  between  General 
Cromwell's  legs  and  flinging  himself  forward,  upset 
General  Cromwell  and  broke  away.  The  sentry 
drove  a  pike  at  him  and  he  slipped  beneath  the 
thrust  and  leaped  to  his  saddle.  Men  ran  to  snatch 
at  his  bridle,  but  he  drove  in  his  spurs  and  the 
horse  bounded  forward,  hurling  them  down.  One 
of  Cromwell's  escort  had  time  to  rein  round  in  his 
path,  but  the  staff  of  the  standard  emptied  the  sad- 
dle like  a  lance  and  Colonel  Stow  crashed  across 
the  market  while  the  little  crowds  of  chatterers 
fled  out  of  his  way.  He  stood  up  in  his  stirrups. 
"For  the  King!"  he  shouted.  "For  the  King!"  and 
so  sped  away  from  the  half  light  of  the  market- 
place into  the  gloom. 


JOAN    NORMANDY    SEES    A    FRIEND     185 

There  was  one  who  watched  him  go  with  a  wild 
gleam  in  her  eyes ;  her  bosom  surged  high  and  her 
cheeks  were  hot.  She  was  alive  with  a  strange  joy. 
She  was  keenly,  fiercely  glad  of  his  deed  and  proud. 
She  throbbed  with  mad  life.  He  was  her  hero  of 
the  springtime,  and  none  like  him  among  men.  He 
dared,  and,  gay  and  splendid,  he  conquered  the 
impossible.  It  was  good,  it  was  good  to  give  her 
heart  to  him.  .  .  .  Not  then  nor  for  many  an 
hour  did  she  think  to  weep  that  his  deeds  were  for 
her  foes,  that  he  was  pledged  still  to  another  faith, 
another  love.  .  .  .  He  was  fearless  and  strong 
and  great.  .  .  .  While  she  toiled  that  night 
through  to  ease  the  pain  of  the  wounded,  her  soul 
was  singing  a  strange  melody. 

Colonel  Stow  was  heartily  anxious  as  he  broke 
away  through  the  dark  streets.  He  could  hear 
Cromwell's  troopers  behind  him  and  he  did  not 
know  the  town.  Only  he  meant  to  get  out  of  it  on 
the  side  remote  from  the  armies.  By  the  turn  of 
the  road  to  Hungerford  two  of  the  Puritans  caught 
him  up  and  he  heard  the  whirr  of  their  wheel  locks 
and  struck  out  behind  him  with  the  full  length  of 
the  standard.  He  hit  something.  The  shots  went 
wild  and  he  had  time  for  his  sword  before  they 
closed.  He  drew  rein  sharply  and  they  were  borne 
by  him  before  they  were  aware.  Then  from  behind 
he  came  at  them  with  the  point  and  one  went  down 
over  the  horse's  head  and  the  wild  blows  of  the 
other  but  grazed  down  his  arm  as  he  was  away 


i86  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

again.  Still  the  others  pressed  after  him  and  he 
thundered  through  the  peace  of  the  country  night, 
watching  the  hedge-rows.  At  last  he  saw  a  meadow 
clear  from  the  road  to  the  river  and  reined  short  off. 
One  quick  scurry  over  the  turf  and  his  horse  took 
the  water.  The  Puritans  had  their  fill.  They  halted 
steaming  horses  and  trained  pistols  for  him.  But 
it  was  an  ill  shot  for  wheel  locks  in  the  gloom  and 
the  balls  whistled  far  wide.  Colonel  Stow  rose  on 
the  farther  bank  and  waved  the  standard  round  his 
head,  shouting,  "For  the  King!   For  the  King!" 

Wet  and  ragged,  his  face  splashed  with  blood,  he 
came  back  to  his  regiment.  It  was  mustering  for 
retreat.  Major  Stewart,  enjoying  himself  in  com- 
mand, received  his  colonel  with  no  affectation  of 
pleasure.  "Od  rot  me,"  says  he,  "I  swore  you  had 
gone  over  to  the  other  side." 

"It  may  surprise  you,"  said  Colonel  Stow  sweet- 
ly, "but  you  spoke  the  truth." 

"If  I  ever  knew  what  you  meant,"  Major  Stew- 
art grumbled,  "it  would  be  better  for  both  of  us." 

"Who  knows?"  said  Colonel  Stow.  "Well,  I  had 
to  fetch  something.  Major,  will  you  send  that  to 
Prince  Rupert  with  the  duty  of  Colonel  Stow's  regi- 
ment?" 

"By  the  Lord,"  said  Major  Stewart  very  slowly, 
"it  is  Cleveland's  standard !" 

"Your  surprise  does  not  flatter  me,"  said  Colonel 
Stow. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

COLONEL  STOW  KEEPS  THE  PEACE 

THROUGH  the  darkness,  the  King's  army  de- 
filed past  the  front  of  my  Lord  Manchester's 
position  and  took  the  road  for  Oxford.  My  Lord 
Manchester  was  kind  enough  to  neglect  so  fair  a 
chance  of  attack.  For  which  he  was  after  mightily 
blamed.  But  it  seems  likely  that  at  the  moment  of 
opportunity  my  Lord  Manchester  had  enough  to  do 
in  bracing  himself  against  a  torrent  of  reproaches 
from  the  lieutenant  general,  who  loved  him  hourly 
less. 

So  the  weary  Cavaliers  made  away  north  over 
gray  uphill  roads  the  long  night  through.  Not  till 
dawn  did  they  dare  stay  for  a  bivouac.  On  the  re- 
verse of  the  hills  beyond  Ilsley  the  camp-fires 
broke  against  the  first  blue  light  and  worn-out  men 
slept  where  they  fell.  Colonel  Stow  and  his  offi- 
cers, gathered  round  a  fire,  looked  at  one  another 
queerly  through  the  pungent  smoke.  There  was 
silence. 

The  sutler  brought  them  cheese  and  biscuit  and 
187 


i88  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

a  jar  of  ale.  "Well,  gentlemen,"  says  Colonel  Stow, 
beginning  to  munch,  "there  was  some  matter  of  a 
duello,  I  think.  Have  you  made  your  election? 
Which  of  you  have  I  the  honor  to  meet?" 

Major  Dick  Stewart  swore  pensively  at  creation. 
Then  there  was  silence  again. 

Colonel  Stow  shrugged.  "The  next  move  is 
yours,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  and  went  on  with  his 
cheese. 

"Split  me,"  said  Major  Stewart,  and  for  a  while 
expressed  no  other  desire.  Colonel  Stow,  munch- 
ing placidly,  felt  their  eyes  converge  upon  him.  I 
can  not  conceal  that  he  was  subject  to  vanity.  Then, 
"How  a  murrain  can  we  fight  you?"  the  Major 
blurted  out.  "If  you'll  fight  the  man  that  did  best 
to-day,  fight  yourself.  Od  rot  you,  you  have  beat 
us  all.  And  we — well,  we  are  all  for  you,  and  there 
is  no  more  to  it" 

*'Sein  d'enjer"  said  Captain  Sedley  daintily,  "I 
will  recant  some  words  of  mine.  I  profess  I  have 
a  cruel  tongue.  I  ask  pardon,  Colonel,  and  salute 
you  de  bon  cocur.  No  Cavalier  can  do  more."  And 
from  the  rest,  who  despised  Captain  Sedley's  gift  of 
words,  there  was  a  gruff  muttering. 

Colonel  Stow  was  ready  to  make  repentance  easy. 
"No  need  for  so  much,  gentlemen,"  said  he  quickly, 
and  stretched  out  his  hand  to  Major  Stewart.  "The 
truth  is,  I  was  only  seeking  the  right  to  keep  peace 
with  you." 

"The  truth  is,"  growled  Major  Stewart,  "you  are 


COLONEL  STOW  KEEPS  THE  PEACE     189 

beyond  us  and  we  be  fools.  Split  me,  we  be  fools." 
The  other  gentlemen  had  not  the  same  zeal  in  con- 
fession, but  they  did  not  deny  it. 

It  was  a  holy  frame  of  mind.  "I  foresee  that 
we  shall  be  a  happy  regiment,  gentlemen,"  said 
Colonel  Stow.  They  looked  some  doubt  of  living 
up  to  his  emotions.  "If  only  we  had  more  beer," 
said  he  sadly,  and  won  all  their  hearts.  They  guf- 
fawed affectionately.  In  the  midst  of  which,  vague 
through  the  smoky  light,  a  large  man  came  stalk- 
ing to  them.     There  was  no  mistaking  the  Palatine. 

"Colonel  Stow?"  he  called  out,  and  with  Colonel 
Stow  the  officers  scrambled  to  their  feet.  "I've  come 
for  a  share  of  your  cheese,  gentlemen,"  says  he, 
and  squatted  down  by  their  fire.  They  made  their 
circle  again  and  the  Palatine  filled  his  mouth.  "I'll 
swear  you  get  the  best  provand  in  the  army,  Jerry 
Stow.     Mine  is  maggots,"  said  he. 

"Our  sutler  is  the  best  thief  in  the  army,"  said 
Colonel  Stow  with  modest  pride. 

"Then  I  shall  hang  him  to  encourage  the  others." 

"He  would  certainly  steal  the  rope,  sir." 

"Humph !"  Prince  Rupert's  eyes  grew  keen.  "Did 
he  steal  that  standard?" 

"O,  sir,  he  has  no  time  for  trifles.  Consider  this 
excellent  ale — which  I  do  trust  never  belonged  to 
your  Highness." 

"It  does  now,"  said  his  Highness,  after  an  ad- 
mirable potation,  "and  I  defy  your  sutler.  But  we 
are  going  to  talk  of  that  standard,  my  friend." 


I90  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Your  Highness  will  find  the  beer  vastly  more 
interesting." 

His  Highness  finished  the  beer  and  remarked 
that  it  had  no  more  interest.  "Now,  my  friend,  who 
won  that  standard  back?" 

"My  regiment  had  the  honor  to  present  it  to 
Your  Highness.  Your  Highness  will  be  good 
enough  to  give  the  credit  to  the  regiment." 

"Damn  your  civilities,"  said  the  Palatine.  "Do 
you  tell  me  you  marched  on  Manchester  together?" 

"I  beg  Your  Highness  to  count  it  the  gift  of  the 
whole  regiment.  And  to  believe  you  wrong  no  man 
in  thanking  all." 

">Hdllendonner,  are  you  to  order  my  conduct?" 
cried  the  Palatine.    "Who  won  the  thing  and  how?" 

"If  Your  Highness  considers  the  deed  worth  any 

advancement,  it  should  be  for  Major  Stewart  here." 

.  "Hang  me  if  you  need  be  so  anxious  to  rob  a  man 

of  his  laurels,"  said  Rupert  with  a  sneer.     "  'Tis  a 

curst  mean  spirit  and " 

"Here,  here,"  spluttered  Major  Stewart,  "od  rot 
me,  this  is  all  topsy  turvy.  'Twas  the  Colonel  him- 
self took  the  thing.  I  would  be  boiled  before  I  went 
hawking  among  the  Ironsides." 

Rupert  turned  upon  Colonel  Stow.  "Now,  what 
a  pox  is  this  play  for?"  said  he  with  some  irrita- 
tation. 

"Faith,  I  did  take  the  thing,  but  'twas  purely 
for  the  honor  of  the  regiment,  and  I  beg  Your  High- 
ness to  give  your  thanks  to  Major  Stewart,  to  whom 


COLONEL  STOW  KEEPS  THE  PEACE     191 

I  owe  a  debt,  for  commanding  where  he  might  com- 
mand." 

"Humph !"  Rupert  frowned  at  him.  "You  will 
be  so  very  kind  as  to  tell  me  a  little  simple  truth." 

"It  shall  be  purely  bald,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  and 
made  his  tale  so. 

But  before  the  end  of  it  Rupert  was  clapping  him 
on  the  shoulder  and  guffawing  tumultuously.  "I 
would  give  my  garter,"  he  gasped,  "to  have  seen 
Noll  Cromwell  on  his  hinder  end."  When  all  was 
told  he  was  some  while  in  growing  grave.  Then, 
"Faith,  you  ought  to  have  been  a  knight  errant," 
said  he.  "And  what  the  devil  am  I  to  do  for  you?" 
Colonel  Stow  looked  at  his  major.  "Ay,  I  know," 
and  rising  he  gripped  hands  with  both  of  them. 

Major  Stewart  was  more  red  than  nature.  He 
grunted  profusely,  staring  at  his  colonel.  "You 
make  me  cursed  uncomfortable,"  said  he. 

That  is  the  whole  matter  of  the  standard,  which, 
as  Colonel  Royston  said,  was  neither  war  nor  busi- 
ness. There  are  more  moral  people  than  he  who 
admire  it  but  little;  some  of  good  judgment  who 
sneer  at  Colonel  Stow  for  his  pains.  Doubtless 
there  was  a  gaudy  vanity  in  it  all,  but  if  you  have 
no  mercy  for  that,  you  will  not  understand  Colonel 
Stow,  nor  why  some  men  and  women  loved  him 
strangely. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

lovers'  meeting 

O  O  WITH  no  great  loss,  yet  with  no  great  glory, 
*^  the  King's  army  won  back  to  Oxford.  They 
had  fought  a  tiresome  campaign  and  ended  it  no 
better  off  than  they  began.  There  were  some  gen- 
tlemen, like  Colonel  Strozzi  of  the  artillery,  who 
began  to  make  ready  for  a  change.  The  longer  the 
war,  the  better  the  Puritan  chance  of  victory;  for 
the  King  had  no  money.  Oxford  welcomed  his 
army  with  no  exuberant  gaiety,  and  even  my  Lord 
Jermyn's  splendors  were  something  bedraggled. 

But  Colonel  Stow  never  permitted  himself  to 
borrow  other  people's  despair.  There  was  a  lilt  in 
his  walk  as  he  went  through  the  snow  showers  of 
a  December  morning  to  wait  on  Lucinda. 

She  gave  herself  to  his  arms  and  came  from  them 
rosy,  with  sparkling  eyes.  Then,  as  he  held  her 
away  to  look  at  her,  he  was  aware  of  an  elegant 
mourning  robe,  black  and  silver.  Black  became 
Lucinda's  richness  well.  He  was  swiftly  grave. 
"You  have  had  some  loss,  child?" 

"My  mother,"  said  Lucinda  calmly.  "It  was 
192 


LOVERS'    MEETING  i93 

hard  for  her  to  leave  the  Manor.     She  never  had 
much  strength  after." 

Colonel  Stow  frowned  at  her.  He  felt  a  dis- 
cord.    "I  am  most  sorry,"  he  said  gravely. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Lucinda.  "She  had  not 
been  happy.     I  never  remember  her  happy." 

Colonel  Stow  repented  of  a  rash  censure.  "Dear, 
it  is  hard  for  you,"  he  said  tenderly,  and  rested  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder. 

Lucinda  laughed.  "O,  I — she  and  I  were  not 
much  to  each  other,  you  know." 

Colonel  Stow  took  his  hand  away.  "She  was 
kind  to  us,"  he  said  with  a  shade  of  reproof  in  his 
tone. 

"Was  she?"  said  Lucinda.  "I  never  knew  her 
kind  or  unkind  to  any  one.  Yes,  she  was  like  that. 
I  do  not  think  she  was  fond  of  life." 

Colonel  Stow  felt  a  harsher  discord.  "You  are 
not  troubled  by  much  regret,"  he  said  severely. 

"Why  should  I  pretend?" 

Colonel  Stow  turned  away  from  her  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  out  at  the  whirling  snow.  She 
hurt  him.  He  believed  in  tenderness  and  the  emo- 
tions. He  was  of  those  who  find  the  worth  of  man 
or  woman  in  tears.  Lucinda,  lying  back  on  her 
cushions  watching  him  with  that  strange,  puzzling 
smile  of  hers,  thought  him,  I  suppose,  something  of 
a  fool.  .  .  .  He  struggled  to  convince  him- 
self she  was  not  callous.  .  .  .  He  came  to 
her.     "Dear,  you    are    brave     .     .     .     and  true," 


194  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

he  said,  and  felt  it  sounded  queerly.  "I  am  stupid, 
I  think.  .  .  .  Indeed,  I  seek  to  keep  you  from 
sorrow." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Lucinda.  "Indeed,  sir,  I 
think  I  never  was  afraid  of  anything  but  you."  Her 
eyes  grew  dark  and  intent.  "You  know — too  much 
of  me"   she  said. 

"I  would  know  all  to  love  it  better." 

Lucinda  laughed.  "I  wonder  .  .  .  and  I  won- 
der if  I  know  all  of  you." 

"I  need  no  better  love  at  least." 

"That  may  be,"  she  said  gravely.  Then,  tossing 
back  her  curls,  "Well,  sir,  and  what  great  deeds 
have  you  brought  me  back  from  the  wars  ?" 

This  note  was  true  to  Colonel  Stow's  taste.  He 
smiled  at  last.  "I  tell  myself  I  have  not  done  un- 
worthily." 

There  was  gaiety  in  Lucinda's  laugh.  She  had 
never  been  blind  to  Colonel  Stow's  vanity  and  liked 
him  for  it  the  better.  "Tell  me  a  score  of  the  finest 
deeds,"  said  she,  settling  herself  in  a  delectable  pose 
on  her  cushions. 

"I  have  made  a  rabble  into  a  regiment  and  gen- 
tlemen of  the  tavern  into  officers." 

Lucinda  yawned.  "It  is  doubtless  more  glorious 
than  amusing." 

"And  they  adore  me  for  it." 

"But  why  should  I  ?" 

"Nay,  Heaven  forbid  you  should  adore  me." 

"I  fear  It  has,"  said  Lucinda. 


LOVERS'    MEETING  I95 

"I  am  content.     It  has  bidden  you  love." 

"Why,  sir,  there  was  indeed  compulsion."  Her 
eyes  sparkled  wickedness.  "But  whether  of  Heaven 
— well,  'tis  not  maidenly  to  think  so." 

"Faith,  I  belong  to  this  world,"  Colonel  Stow  ad- 
mitted. "But  I  think  you  are  not  all  of  another 
neither." 

Her  eyes  met  him  fairly  still,  but  a  slow  blush 
came.  After  a  while,  "I  believe  you  play  with  me 
because  you  have  nothing  to  boast  of,"  she  said. 

"I  have  no  skill  in  boasting,"  said  Colonel  Stow, 
and  doubtless  believed  it.  "But  there  is  something 
to  tell."    And  he  began  the  exploit  of  the  standard. 

.  .  "It  was  the  Ironside  himself  that  grap- 
pled me,  but  I  sat  him  down  disconsolate.  The  sen- 
try at  the  gate  advanced  his  pike  at  me,  but  I  made 
under  that  and  flung  myself  up  in  the  saddle. 
There  was  one  of  Noll's  men  in  my  way  and  I  gave 
him  the  standard  butt  like  a  Magyar's  lance,  and 
he  was  down,  too,  and  I  was  away  at  speed  through 
the  town.  Noll's  men  made  after  me  and  there  was 
a  small  affair  with  a  pair  of  them,  for  which  one  is 
now  sorry,  before  I  got  a  chance  to  break  to  the 
river.  We  swam  that  with  the  pistols  blazing  all 
ways  behind  us,  but  the  Roundheads  would  not 
bathe,  and  I  came  easily  to  the  army  and  sent  the 
standard  back  to  the  Palatine  with  the  compliments 
of  the  regiment."  He  had  his  reward.  Lucinda's 
breath  came  fast  and  her  eyes  shone  for  him.  Her 
hands  were  close  clenched. 


196  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"I  am  glad,  I  am  glad !"  she  cried.  "Yes !  .  .  . 
And  what  did  Prince  Rupert  send  you  back?" 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "An  oath  or  so."  She 
sat  erect  and  fierce.  "Why,  you  see  I  was  more 
modest  with  him  than  with  you  and  would  not  tell 
him  whose  the  deed  was." 

"But  you  did?"  There  w.as  a  hard,  sharp  ring 
in  her  voice  that  he  did  not  know. 

"Yes."  He  looked  his  surprise  at  her,  "Faith, 
yes,"  and  he  chuckled.  "I  told  him  and  begged 
him  give  the  reward  to  fat  Stewart,  the  major."  He 
laughed  happily.  The  boyish  magnificence  of  it, 
his  own  naiVe  vanity  brought  him  pure  joy. 

But  a  queer  change  came  over  Lucinda's  face. 
Her  lips  shaped  to  a  sneer.  "You  make  everything 
like  a  boy's  game." 

Colonel  Stow  opened  his  eyes.  "Why,  yes.  All 
the  world  is  a  boy's  game,  if  you  make  it  so." 

"I  am  a  woman,"  said  Lucinda. 

"No  man  will  ever  complain  of  that." 

"Will  you  give  me  only  a  boy?" 

He  came  close  beside  her.  "Is  that  all  I  am?"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice  and  slipped  his  arm  about  her. 

But  she  broke  away.  "O,  you  are  like  a  child 
that  is  always  crying,  'How  fine  I  am !'  I  believe 
you  think  of  nothing  but  making  yourself  a  fool's 
hero  of  mad  romance.  What  kind  of  man  is  it  that 
longs  and  strives  to  be  like  mad  Quixote?  You — 
you  are  as  vain  of  it  as  a  girl  of  her  gown." 

Colonel    Stow    flushed.     He   felt  a  pitiless  truth 


LOVERS'    MEETING  i97 

about  some  of  that  and  it  troubled  him.  "  'Tis  so, 
in  fact,  dear,"  said  he  with  a  doleful  laugh.  "I  am 
something  of  a  peacock." 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,  do  not  be  meek,"  cried 
Lucinda.  "That  is  not  to  be  borne.  O,  I  hate  your 
great  souled  hero  with  no  brain  for  himself." 

"Why,"  Colonel  Stow  protested,  "all  I  have  is 
mighty  anxious  to  take  care  of  me." 

"What  help  is  it  then?  You  do  .a  rare,  great  deed 
and  get  nothing  for  it;  you  care  only  to  look  the 
Quixote  and  cry,  'Nay,  pay  another,  not  me!  I  am 
above  such  gauds !'  But  I  have  no  patience  for  it. 
I  despise  a  man  that  is  .afraid  to  be  greedy." 

Colonel  Stow  shrugged.  "I  am  afraid  of  many 
things.     I  have  never  denied  it." 

"And  you  pretend  strength  to  me?" 

Colonel  Stow  looked  in  her  eyes.  "Yes,"  he 
said. 

She  started  up.  "I  hate  all  this.  It  is  not  real. 
It  is  all  words  and  a  show.  Do  you  know?  Do  you 
know?  You  are; making  yourself  no  more  than  a  ro- 
mance book  for  me.  What  worth  is  there  in  all 
you  have  done?  How  are  you  the  better?  What 
have  you  won  by  it?" 

"If  you  do  not  know,  I  can  not  tell  you,  madame." 

"I  detest  your  loftiness!" 

Colonel  Stow  bowed.    "I  shall  try  to  get  more." 

Lucinda  stamped  her  foot.  "Do  you  seek  to  put 
me  in  a  passion  against  you?" 

"I  hope  I  may  never  give  you  better  reason,"  said 


198  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Colonel  Stow.  "Nay,  child,  I  doubt  I  am  a  vain 
fool,  and  you  are  too  honest  for  me.  Let  it  rest. 
Faith,  I  can  not  afford  to  be  at  war  with  you." 

"I  am  in  no  temper  for  peace,"  said  Lucinda. 

When  in  a  little  while  Colonel  Stow  left  her  his 
hand  was  at  his  chin  and  his  brow  furrowed. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

LUCINDA  WEEPS 

'nr^HE  court  had  a  wintry  melancholy.  Its  pride 
-^  was  decaying.  The  assurance  of  triumph  that 
never  came  was  enfeebled.  Queen  Henrietta,  who 
expected  a  child,  was  out  of  spirits  and  there  was 
a  notable  scarcity  of  money.  It  would  have  been 
disloyal  to  affect  gaiety  and  impossible  when  one's 
jewels  were  sold.  Colonel  Royston  compared  the 
assembly  in  Merton  hall  to  birds  at  the  moulting 
time.  So  harsh  were  their  voices,  so  stale  their 
finery.  Colonel  Royston  had  a  grim  pleasure  in  the 
exhibition  till  he  came  upon  one  who  excelled  the 
rest  in  gloom,  yet  escaped  the  ridiculous.  It  was 
Lucinda,  While  he  bowed  he  sneered  at  himself 
as  a  fool  for  seeing  her.  Lucinda  did  not  speak, 
but  there  was  appeal  in  her  eyes. 

Royston  felt  himself  flush.  "I  have  to  offer  my 
regrets,  madame,"  he  said  with  a  gesture  to  her 
mourning  gown. 

"My  mother." 

Colonel  Royston  bowed  .again. 

"Will  you  give  me  escort  home?"  she  said  list- 
lessly.    "There  is  no  one  else." 

199 


200  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Royston  laughed.  "You  flatter  me."  And  he 
made  a  way  for  her  through  the  crowd. 

Lucinda  was  of  better  fortune  than  some.  She 
had  still  a  coach.  Colonel  Royston  handed  her  in 
and  showed  no  zeal  to  follow.  She  leaned  back  with 
a  shrug  and  a  careless,  "As  you  will."  Colonel  Roy- 
ston came  in  beside  her. 

They  were  jolted  up  St.  Aldate's.  It  was  not 
possible  to  avoid  the  touch  of  her  shoulder,  her 
perfume.  But  she  showed  no  interest  in  Colonel 
Royston  and  he  looked  at  her  black  and  then  with 
surprise  not  all  cynical  at  her  listless  brow.  He  was 
not  able  to  believe  in  a  mourning  Lucinda.  And  yet 
she  was  no  creature  of  aff"ectation.  "You  are  not 
inspiring,  madame,"  said  he. 

"So  I  find,"  said  Lucinda  with  a  quick  light  in 
her  eyes. 

"I  suppose  I  am  not  inflammable,"  Colonel  Roy- 
ston sneered.  She  had  a  trick  of  waking  the  bru- 
tality in  him. 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  you,"  said  Lucinda  care- 
lessly. 

Colonel  Royston  did  not  miss  the  inference.  It 
was  Colonel  Stow  who  failed  to  answer  to  her  de- 
sires. He  could  easily  believe  it.  And  he  felt  some 
contempt  for  both  of  them.  For  Lucinda  because 
she  was -not  high  enough  to  be  content  with  his 
friend;  for  his  friend  because  he  did  not  satisfy 
Lucinda's  need.     "I  always  found  Jerry  asked  an 


LUCINDA    WEEPS  201 

uncomfortable  virtue  of  me,"  he  .admitted  with 
a  grin. 

"I  do  not  know  why  you  should  sneer?"  she 
looked  at  him  with  grave,  questioning  eyes. 

"I  am  made  for  it." 

"Poor  creature,"  said  Lucinda. 

The  coach  drew  up  at  her  door  in  Holywell.  He 
was  punctilious  in  handing  her  out  With  her  hand 
still  in  his  she  checked  and  turned.  "Will  it  please 
you  to  come  in?" 

"I  am  not  amusing,  madame." 

She  gave  a  queer,  scornful  laugh.  "O,  if  you 
are  afraid !"  and  passed  on. 

But  Colonel  Royston,  who,  unlike  his  friend,  con- 
ceived himself  afraid  of  nothing,  followed  her  close. 
.  .  .  He  stood  over  her  while  she  held  out  her 
'hands  to  the  fire  and  its  light  fell  on  her  neck.  "I 
wonder.  .  .  .  Did  you  ever  want  more  of  a 
woman  than  she  had?" 

Colonel  Royston  laughed.  "Always.  And  there- 
fore took  nothing." 

"I  wonder  .  .  .  Does  a  woman  always  dis- 
appoint a  man?" 

"Unless  he  is  a  fool,"  Royston  assured  her. 

She  leaned  her  head  full  back  to  look  up  at  him. 
The  light  laughed  about  her  breast.  "And  the  man 
— he  always  disappoints  the  woman,  perhaps?"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice. 

"If  he  has  disappointed  you,"  said  Colonel  Roy- 


202  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

ston  with  grim  emphasis,  "I  do  not  admire  your  de- 
sires." 

She  bent  to  the  fire  again.  She  was  silent  so 
long  that  Royston  changed  his  place  to  see  her  full. 
Her  eyes  were  glistening,  her  cheeks  jeweled  with 
tears. 

"Humph.  You  are  not  proud  of  yourself,  either, 
it  seems." 

She  looked  up  fierce.  "No  one  but  you  has  ever 
made  me  do  this,"  she  cried  and  roughly  brushed 
the  tears  away.  She  started  to  her  feet  and  faced 
him.  "It  is  true.  I  am  ashamed,  I  would  to  God 
I  were  fit  for  him.  But  there  is  more.  I  want 
more."  She  caught  Royston's  arm.  "You  know 
me.  There  is  wild  blood  in  you,  too.  I  am  what 
I  am." 

Colonel  Royston  tried  to  laugh.  "Something  of 
the  tiger,  I  think."  But  he  was  flushed  and  his 
hand  closed  on  her  bare  wrist. 

"Would  you  tame  me?" 

"No,  faith,  you  would  make  me  as  wild  as  your- 
self." 

^'I  wonder  if  you  could  be,"  she  laughed  and 
tried  to  draw  her  arm  away. 

"I  can  be  greedy,"  said  Royston,  gripping  the 
other,  too.  He  looked  down  at  her  with  a  smile 
of  no  gaiety. 

"And  I  could  starve  you,"  Lucinda  laughed,  lean- 
ing away  from  him  so  that  her  weight  hung  on  his 
hands. 


LUCINDA    WEEPS  203 

"Yoii  would  not  try." 

"La,  you  for  pride!  In  truth,  sir,  I  can  conceive 
you  tiresome  as  chains." 

"They  would  grip  all  of  you." 

"That  is  what  I  doubt." 

"Or  fear?" 

She  faltered  a  moment.  There  was  a  faint  blush 
on  her  neck.  But,  "Nay,  faith,  I  fear  nothing,"  she 
cried  gaily,  and  laughing  ,at  him,  drew  away.  "Is 
that  my  charm?" 

"Yes.    So  that  a  man  wants  to  make  you  afraid?" 

"Alack,  poor  man !"  she  laughed. 

"O,  it  would  be  amusing  for  him,"  said  Colonel 
Royston  in  measured  tones.  His  brows  were  bent 
upon  her. 

"But  if  I  made  him  fear  instead?" 

"That  is  the  damnable  challenge  of  you." 

She  clapped  her  hands.  "I  knew !  You  are 
afraid  already." 

Colonel  Royston  laughed.  "You  are  vain,  ma- 
dame." 

She  flung  her  arms  wide  and  stood  so  in  the  best 
of  her  beauty.  "Have  I  not  the  right?  Nay,  but  I 
am  not  vain.  That  is  little  and  calm.  I  am  sure 
of  myself.  That  is  why  I  laugh  at  Colonel  Roy- 
ston," and  she  made  him  a  splendid  mocking  curtsy. 

"And  what  do  you  want  of  him,  pray  ?"  Royston 
looked  down  at  her  with  a  grim  smile. 
"The  joy  of  a  fight,  sir." 
"And  a  defeat?" 


204  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

She  laughed.  There  was  a  baffling  mystery  in 
her  eyes.  "Do  you  think  you  move  me  as  I  move 
you?" 

"There  is  other  strength  than  a  woman's,"  said 
Colonel  Royston  in  a  low  voice.  His  eyes  were 
blazing. 

"I  know  no  other,"  said  Lucinda,  facing  him  full. 

Colonel  Royston  made  one  stride  to  her,  flung  a 
hard  arm  about  her  and  gripped  her  neck.  Crush- 
ing the  slim  whiteness  of  it  in  his  big  bronzed  hand, 
he  bore  her  head  back  and  bent  over  her. 

She  was  quivering  and  hot  in  his  grasp,  but  her 
eyes  brave  still.  "This  is  nothing — nothing — ^a 
boor's  strength,  your  body  strength." 

"Is  that  all?"  he  muttered  and  his  breath  beat 
on  her  cheek.  "You  know,"  and  his  grasp  grew 
fiercer.  She  was  helpless  utterly  in  that  heavy 
power  and  knew  it  She  laughed  reckless.  But 
the  laugh  broke  suddenly  and  she  was  pale.  Her 
eyes  stared  wide.  While  he  watched,  his  arm  fell 
lax  and  he  let  her  go.  They  stood  apart  gazing 
steadily  at  each  other. 

Then  Lucinda  gave  a  little  laugh  of  no  joy.  "We 
frighten  ourselves,  I  think." 

Colonel  Royston  did  not  deny  it  He  gazed  at 
her  still  a  long  while  silent,  then  caught  up  his 
cloak  and  strode  out 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

THE  HOME  OF  LOST  CAUSES 

ly/TATTHIEU-MARC-LUC  complained  of  ev- 
-'-'-'-  ery thing,  but  chiefly  of  a  nutshell.  Every- 
thing was  wrong  and  the  latter  had  hit  his  nose — 
a  spot  where  dignity  is  apt  to  reside.  Matthieu- 
Marc  rubbed  the  offended  nose  and  looked  round 
with  indignation  for  the  offender.  "You  would 
laugh  more  if  you  could  always  see  yourself,"  he 
was  assured.  It  was  a  girl's  voice  that  came  through 
the  window  of  a  tiny  pastry  shop.  The  owner  leaned 
out  to  him  over  her  wares  and  Matthieu-M.arc 
found  a  wholesome  rosy  face  cheek  to  cheek  with 
his.  He  started  back.  "O,  dear,"  says  she,  "you 
are  mighty  maidenly.  Maybe  it's  why  you  are  so 
miserable." 

Matthieu-Marc  shook  his  head  at  her.  "Be  mis- 
erable also,  mademoiselle.      It  is  your  duty." 

"Your  dinner  has  fallen  out  with  you?" 

"My  dinner  never  falls  out  with  me,"  said  Mat- 
thieu-Marc with  indignation.  "I  am  the  best  cook 
in  England." 

"O,  dear,"  says  the  girl  while  Matthieu-Marc 
205 


206  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

was  pruning  himself,  "what  a  silly  thing  to  be.  A 
woman  can  cook." 

Matthieu-Marc  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  "If 
you  can  believe  a  betise  like  that  you  can  believe 
this  country  a  place  to  be  happy  in."  He  approached 
her  pastry  with  a  supercilious  eye  and  helped  him- 
self to  a  simnel  cake.  "The  oven  was  not  hot,"  says 
he  on  the  first  mouthful. 

"If  you  want  something  light,  why  do  'e  eat  sim- 
nel?" quoth  she.  "If  you  want  to  be  a  man  why  do 
'e  be  a  cook?" 

"I  am  also  a  soldier,"  said  Matthieu-Marc  with 
dignity. 

"Which  makes  you  look  so  green?" 

"It  is  your  country,  your  bilious  country,"  said 
Matthieu-Marc.  "Bah,  your  cooking,  your  fight- 
ing, it  is  all  the  same;  you  never  know  what  you 
want.  Therefore  your  soups  are  tragedies,  your 
battles  farces.  Whereas — remark  me,  madamoiselle 
— ^your  proper  soup  should  be  a  gladsome  farce, 
your  battle  a  noble  tragedy.  You  are  a  country 
emasculate.  You  never  mean  anything." 

"Sure,  but  I  do,"  says  the  girl.  "I  mean  to 
make  love  to  you."  Matthieu-Marc  recoiled.  "What 
a  brave  cook!" 

"Consider  my  modesty,"  Matthieu-Marc  pro- 
tested. 

"Lud,  if  I  do  without  it,  can  not  you?  You  are 
a  sweet  thing  of  a  man.     You  are  that  ridiculous." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Matthieu-Marc,  "you  do  not 


THE    HOME    OF    LOST    CAUSES     207 

appreciate  me.  I  am  of  a  melancholic  genius."  The 
girl  again  flicked  a  nutshell  at  his  nose.  "That  is 
not  a  reply,"  said  Matthieu-Marc. 

"That's  just  what  it  is,"  said  the  girl.  "It  makes 
you  feel  what  you  are — silly." 

"Of  what  profit  is  it  to  me  to  feel  silly.?"  Mat- 
thieu-Marc inquired. 

"When  you  feel  silly  you'll  be  happy,"  said  the 
girl.     "I  know." 

"I  would  rather  not,"  said  Matthieu-Marc  sin- 
cerely. 

The  girl  pulled  a  face  at  him.  "That's  you,"  said 
she.     "But  you  do  it  always." 

Matthieu-Marc  made  a  magnificent  gesture.  "I 
am  too  noble  a  nature  to  be  happy." 

"Sure,  you're  but  a  child,"  said  the  girl.  "And 
that  is  why  I  like  you.  Do  'e  like  me,  now?"  She 
leaned  over  her  cakes  and  again  the  plump  face 
came  close  to  his. 

Again  Matthieu-Marc  recoiled.  He  coughed. 
"You  look  healthy,"  he  said  with  no  enthusiasm. 

"I  never  knew  a  man  so  slow  with  a  woman,"  the 
girl  pouted.  "And  you  a  soldier!  O,  save  me!" 
She  put  her  hands  on  her  hips  and  laughed  without 
reserve. 

Matthieu-Marc  swore  in  French.  It  was  now  he 
who  leaned  towards  her.  At  which  moment  a  fist 
was  inserted  between  his  ribs.  "Ha,  wickedness! 
Wickedness!"  said  a  jovial  voice  and  Matthieu- 
Marc  turned  in  emotion  to  discover  the  roundness 


208  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

of  Alcibiade,  who  shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  "O, 
my  evangelist!" 

Matthieu-Marc  retreated  without  dignity,  blush- 
ing and  muttering. 

Then  Alcibiade  entered  the  pastry  shop.  "My 
bet,"  says  the  girl,  laughing  still,  "you  owe  me  a 
shilling." 

"Not  a  denier !  You  got  no  kiss  of  him,"  Alcibiade 
protested. 

"I  would  have  had  but  for  you." 

Alcibiade  shook  his  head  at  her.  "I  fear  you 
have  been  forward,  Molly." 

"As  forward  as  yourself,"  quoth  Molly  with  a 
toss  of  her  head. 

"So  bad  as  that?"  said  Alcibiade,  and  thought 
he  made  her  blush. 

But  the  truth  is,  Oxford  was  more  in  the  temper 
of  Matthieu-Marc  than  Alcibiade.  The  Cavaliers 
had  come  at  last  to  misdoubt  their  fortune.  They 
made  no  more  scapegoats.  It  was  not  Rupert  whom 
they  condemned,  but  themselves.  Heart  and  hope 
had  gone  out  of  them.  They  were  not  truly  ready 
to  yield.  Enough  of  them  liked  death  better  than 
that.     But  few  had  any  faith  in  victory. 

It  was  no  blame  to  them.  There  was  no  soul  in 
their  cause.  Their  forlorn,  melancholy  King  was  not 
one  for  whom  a  man  might  be  content  to  die.  He 
stirred  none  to  a  quicker  life.  Pity  he  won  and  devo- 
tion ;  he  could  not  give  a  conquering  zeal.  Indeed, 
he  gave  nothing  to  any  man.     He  asked  of  all.     He 


THE    HOME    OF    LOST    CAUSES     209 

had  no  vision  and  his  people  perished  for  him  in 
vain. 

There  have  been  armies  without  clothes  or  food 
or  pay  or  store  of  weapons,  yet  have  beaten  down 
the  best  provided  foes.  But  the  King's  army  felt 
its  lack  and  was  afraid.  It  had  been  hard  enough 
to  make  head  against  the  Puritans  when  their  gen- 
erals were  blunderers  and  all  their  regiments  out 
of  gear.  Now  there  was  a  new  model  and  all  the 
old  dallying  leaders  were  done  away.  Sir  Thomas 
Fairfax  and  Ironside  Cromwell,  the  conquerors  of 
Marston  Moor,  had  command.  Already  Oxford 
could  feel  the  change.  The  Puritan  armies  were 
drawing  strait  bonds  about  the  town.  Only  the 
road  to  the  west  was  open  still.  By  each  other  way 
the  foraging  parties  broke  in  vain  about  the  Puri- 
tan outposts.  If  they  dared  ,an  attack  they  found 
a  new  strength  against  them.  They  were  as  chil- 
dren fighting  with  men.  Cromwell  and  Fairfax 
had  given  the  fierce  Puritan  zeal  all  it  needed,  the 
strength  of  discipline  and  sure  command. 

So  within  Oxford  there  was  desolation.  All  the 
parasites  of  wealth  were  fled,  all  the  ministers  of 
gaiety.  "The  court,"  said  Rupert,  "is  a  damned 
diurnal  funeral."  Who  went  there  still  were  the 
King's  most  affectionate  friends  and  gay  as  him- 
self. Queen  Henrietta  was  in  no  case  to  cheer 
them.  Her  one  desire  was  to  win  to  a  happier  town 
than  Oxford.  The  few  faded  courtiers,  the  quad- 
rangles where  now  she  saw  little  but  weather-beaten 


2IO  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

soldiers  overthrew  her  spirits.  The  very  age  of 
the  place,  stern  and  austere  in  its  gray,  crumbling 
walls  ('tis  my  Lord  Jermyn's  judgment)  affected 
her  miserably.  She  was  passionate  to  be  gone.  My 
Lord  Jermyn  found  her  a  reason  not  all  unworthy. 
He  persuaded  her  that  there  was  danger  in  Oxford 
and  it  was  plainly  right  that  her  child  should  be 
born  to  safety.  So  Queen  Henrietta  fled  away  to 
the  west  and  by  her  flight  quickened  fear.  If  Ox- 
ford itself  were  not  safe,  what  use  to  battle  more  ? 

It  was  a  bitter  day  of  springtime  when  she  was 
borne  away.  Colonel  Stow  and  Colonel  Royston, 
walking  in  the  meadows  by  Osney,  watched  the 
scant  company.  Rupert  had  spared  her  a  squad- 
ron not  his  best  and  she  had  a  company  of  the 
King's  Guard.  Her  coach  was  in  the  midst  and  she 
huddled  in  a  corner  of  it  and  peered  out  through 
the  misty  windows  with  the  face  of  a  peevish  child. 

Colonel  Royston  turned  away  with  a  shrug.  "It's 
she  has  sense,  Jerry." 

"As  much  as  a  butterfly." 

"What  else  should  a  woman  be?" 

"O,  you  are  an  infidel,  George.  Look  at  Jermyn 
riding  by  as  happy  as  a  wet  cat." 

"Happier  than  we,"  growled  Colonel  Royston. 
"He  is  out  of  it." 

Colonel  Stow  linked  arms  with  his  friend.  "What 
is  wrong,  George?"  said  he  gently. 

"Zounds,  what  is  right?  This  fool  King  is  sink- 
ing and  we  shall  be  drowned  with  him." 


THE    HOME    OF    LOST    CAUSES     211 

"Bah,  we  never  believe  in  defeat,  George." 

"  'Tis  a  damned  lost  cause." 

"And  if  it  were,  are  we  to  be  afraid  to  fail?  By 
Heaven,  we  will  show  the  world  we  know  how  to 
lose  as  well  as  how  to  win." 

"I  am  not  a  play  actor,"  growled  Colonel  Roy- 
ston.  "I  do  not  know  how  to  lose.  I  have  been 
winning  all  my  life  till  you  brought  me  here  to  be 
trapped  like  a  rat  in  a  hole,  to  waste  myself  that  you 
may  philander  about  a  wanton." 

Coloned  Stow  dropped  his  arm  and  stood  away, 
"Do  you  know  what  you  have  said?" 

"And  stand  to  it,  by  God,"  said  Colonel  Royston, 
and  walked  on. 

Colonel  Stow  followed  a  little  way  off.  His  face 
was  paled  and  troubled.  .  .  .  "George,"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice,  and  after  a  moment  Royston 
turned,  "if  we  have  asked  too  much  of  you,  if  you 
have  given  up  too  much  for  us — what  can  a  man 
say? — forgive  me.    We  can  be  friends  still?" 

Colonel  Royston  laughed.  "Zounds,  I  am  al- 
ready too  much  your  friend.  Ay,  and  too  much 
hers,  mordieu." 

"I  thank  God  for  it,"  said  Colonel  Stow  solemnly. 

"Do  you  so?"  said  Colonel  Royston,  and  laughed 
again. 

Together,  silent,  they  came  back  to  the  town,  and 
just  beyond  the  powder  mill  hit  upon  Colonel 
Strozzi,  who,  resplendent  still  while  others  had  fad- 
ed, inserted  himself  between  them.     "You  are  not 


212  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

rejoicing,  my  braves?"  said  he,  grinning  at  their 
glum  faces.  "So.  What  did  I  tell  you?  You 
ought  to  be  traitors.     It  is  more  amusing." 

"I  might  guess  it  more  profitable,"  said  Colonel 
Royston,  glancing  at  his  finery. 

Colonel  Strozzi  laughed. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

THE  SURPRISE  OF  LUCINDA 

"OHE  is  a  hungry  one,"  So  said  Molly  of  the 
*^  cakeshop,  as  she  watched  Lucinda  go  by.  I  have 
thought  that  Molly,  who  was  a  person  of  breadth 
in  many  ways,  may  have  understood  Lucinda  bet- 
ter than  the  men  who  burned  for  her.  Molly,  who 
had  a  greedy  curiosity,  knew  all  her  history  and 
was  not  bitter  against  her.  Indeed,  fortune  mocked 
at  Lucinda;  had  her  father  lived  and  the  old  order 
endured,  or  had  a  man  won  her  to  the  Puritan  side, 
she  might  have  had  the  power  that  her  soul  needed. 
But  with  each  turn  of  fortune  she  was  despoiled 
and  she  bore  it  hard. 

Doubtless  her  life  was  gray  enough.  The  court 
was  dead.  Oxford  was  naked  of  women.  She  had 
no  gaiety,  no  friends,  no  resource  but  herself.  Seek 
other  home,  she  could  not.  What  friends  she  had 
were  harried  by  the  Puritans  even  as  her  own 
Manor  lay  in  the  Puritan  power.  She  was  not  born 
for  restraint.  She  raged  against  the  barriers  of 
life.  Molly,  the  pastry  girl,  pronounced  her  fit  for 
a  queen  and  nothing  else.  Certainly  there  was 
something  of  nobility  in  her,  for  she  could  not  sit 

213 


214  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

down  to  be  content  with  unhappiness.  She  set  her- 
self to  new  plans. 

She  was  well  pleased  on  a  day  when  she  saw 
Colonel  Stow  come  to  her  with  a  grave  face.  He 
had  long  been  offensively  happy.  When  he  only 
kissed  her  hand,  she  pouted.  "My  dear,  'tis  good 
to  be  with  you,"  says  he  with  a  sigh. 

"Faith,  'tis  a  vice  to  be  content  with  so  little." 

"Nay,  this  is  my  greatest  joy,  dear." 

"Is  it?"  says  Lucinda  dolefully.  There  was  a 
full  yard  between  them. 

"What  more  do  I  need?"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

Lucinda  gave  a  rueful  laugh.  "Nothing,  it 
would  seem,"  and  she  looked  at  him  with  comical 
despair. 

"And  you,  dear?"  he  took  her  hand  delicately. 
Her  eyes  glowed,  her  lips  called  to  him.  He  caught 
her  in  his  arms. 

"Enfin"  says  Lucinda  to  his  ear. 

"I  fear,"  quoth  Colonel  Stow,  releasing  her,  "that 
I  did  not  shine." 

"If  you  had  more  impudence,  sir,  you  would  be 
happier." 

"You  also?" 

"O,  you  improve,"  she  laughed.  "There  is  much 
in  good  example." 

When  she  was  again  breathless,  "You  see,"  said 
Colonel  Stow,  "  'tis  dangerous  to  be  kind.  And, 
faith,  how  have  I  earned  it  now?  For  you  have 
been  cold  a  long  while,  dear." 


THE    SURPRISE    OF    LUCINDA      215 

"You  were  looking  unhappy,"  said  Lucinda,  and 
he  was  grave  again.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.     "Tell  me,  then,  what  is  amiss?" 

"I  am  troubled  about  George.  I  brought  him 
here  and  here  there  is  no  place  for  him.  He — he 
is  in  the  right  to  reproach  me." 

Lucinda  was  silent  a  while.  "Indeed,  I  think  we 
are  all  of  the  wrong  side  here."  Colonel  Stow 
shrugged.  She  took  his  hand  in  both  of  hers.  "Tell 
me  truly — do  you  believe  the  King  can  conquer? 
Truly !"  and  her  eyes  compelled  him. 

"I  try  to  believe — and  I  doubt,"  said  Colonel 
Stow. 

"Then  why — why — why "  she  was  passion- 
ately eager — "why  should  you  stay  with  him  ?  What 
bond  is  there?  He  has  done  nothing  for  you. 
You  have  served  him  too  well  and  won  nothing. 
And  the  others — if  you  go  to  them  in  time,  you 
should  be  worth  much  to  them." 

"By  Heaven,  you  can  not  think  what  you  say!" 
cried  Colonel  Stow.  "What!  Break  my  oath  and 
my  honor — O,  sure,  you — you — O,  you  have  not 
seen  it  clear." 

"I  do  see  clear,"  she  said  quietly,  "that  is  why. 
You  care  no  more  for  one  cause  than  the  other. 
You  were  ready  for  either  when  I  brought  you 
here.  Now  we  know  the  King  as  he  is — a  melan- 
choly fool  with  no  mind  nor  heart.  What  hope  of 
him?  Who  can  believe  in  him?  Nay,  what  strength 
has  he  left?     What  is  there  in  this  dismal  town? 


2i6  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

'Tis  the  one  chance  for  us  to  seek  the  others  betimes 
and  win  honor  of  them." 

Colonel  Stow  had  drawn  aloof  from  her  and  was 
staring  in  utter  amazement.  "Desert?"  he  said 
in  a  tone  she  did  not  know.  "You  bid  me  that? 
Desert  from  a  losing  cause?  By  Heaven,  it's  the 
last  infamy." 

"O,  I  can  not  endure  your  Quixotry,"  she  cried. 
"You  must  be  always  strutting  and  posing  though 
you  bring  yourself  to  ruin  and  all  those  that  care 
for  you."  Then  suddenly  she  changed  her  tone. 
"Nay,  you  think  me  hard,  but  I  swear  it  is  for 
you.  They  have  no  fit  honor  for  you  here.  They 
give  you  no  work,  no  chance.  And  you  could  be 
great.  Dear,  for  your  honor  and  mine  you  must 
seek  a  better  cause." 

It  was  well  done.  I  protest  she  believed  each 
word,  and  they  were  with  power  for  Colonel  Stow. 
He  bent  and  kissed  her  hand.  "Dear,  forgive  me. 
You  love  me  too  well,  I  think.  Indeed,  in  all  I  do, 
I  have  no  desire  but  your  honor,  and  'tis  my  great 
pride  that  your  honor  is  mine,  too."  He  kissed  her 
hand  again,  complacent,  while  she  looked  down  at 
him  with  a  queer  smile.  "Nay,  but  there  is  still 
goodly  work  for  me  here.  I  come  to  you  from 
Prince  Rupert,  who  hath  chosen  me  for  a  thing  I 
like.  There  is  a  great  convoy  of  powder  and  arms 
coming  from  Bristol  and  if  it  fall  to  the  Puritans 
we  are  sped.  All  the  roads  are  dangerous  now, 
since  the  Ironside  is  posted  at  Abingdon.     Rupert 


THE   SURPRISE    OF    LUCINDA      217 

trusts  me  to  ride  to  Witney  and  bring  it  safe."  He 
was  smiling,  pleased  as  a  boy  that  has  won  the  prize 
at  the  popinjay.  "Faith,  it  will  need  some  soldier- 
ing.    A  task  very  fit  for  me,  sweetheart." 

But  Lucinda  was  grave  enough.  "If  it  fall  to 
the  Puritans — that  is  the  end,"  she  repeated.  "Here 
is  the  fortune  of  your  life,  then." 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "Why,  'tis  a  worthy  em- 
ploy, dear,  no  more.    But  one  Is  glad  to  be  chosen." 

"O  yes,  I  am  glad  you  are  chosen,"  she  said, 
looking  at  him  strangely. 

"Dear,  it  is  good  to  work  for  you." 

"You  can  work  for  me  now." 

"Ay,  faith,  there  shall  be  laurels  for  you.  O, 
we'll  harry  the  Roundheads  yet." 

She  drew  in  her  breath,  gazing  at  him,  silent, 
intent.  "Can  you  not  see?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"If  this  convoy  means  so  much,  go  you  to  the  Puri- 
tans with  the  tidings  and  help  them  take  it.  What 
will  they  not  do  for  the  man  that  ends  the  war  ?" 

Colonel  Stow  started  up.  "Lucinda !  You !  My 
God,  what  devil  is  in  you?  'Tis  a  base,  traitorous 
infamy.  You  have  not  thought.  You  can  not 
mean  it." 

"I  mean  that  a  man  should  fight  for  himself," 
cried  Lucinda.  "What  have  they  given,  what  can 
they  give  you  here?  What  can  you  offer  me  but 
ruin  ?  I  tell  you  I  will  not  bear  it.  If  you  would 
win  me,  win  a  fit  place  for  me." 

"Fit  place?    The  place  of  a  mean  traitor  whom 


2i8  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

all  men  loathe.  Would  you  have  me  that?  Would 
you  mate  with  such  a  one?  In  God's  name,  think 
again.  You  can  not  be  so  mad,  so — what  words  are 
there?" 

"I  have  thought,"  said  Lucinda  calmly.  "Have 
I  been  easy  and  happy  all  this  while  seeing  you 
in  no  honor  and  our  cause  falling  to  dust?  Yes, 
I  have  thought  often.  If  you  would  have  me,  you 
must  make  me  a  place.  There  is  nothing  to  be  won 
here,  nothing,  you  know  it." 

"Madame,  there  is  honor  to  be  won  if  no  honors," 
said  Colonel  Stow. 

"I  am  in  no  mood  for  your  prettiness,"  Lucinda 
cried.  "Look  you  now.  Here  is  occasion  to  your 
hand.  You  may  go  to  the  Roundheads  with  a  great 
prize.  You  can  make  terms  for  high  fortune  there. 
We  are  so  set  that  the  chance  can  not  come  again. 
Traitor,  you  say?  Who  dares  call  a  man  traitor 
if  he  has  power?  You  can  win  it  if  you  will. 
Choose!" 

"I  would  lose  you  and  lose  all  sooner,"  said 
Colonel  Stow.     He  was  white  to  the  lips. 

Lucinda  smiled.    "You  have  done  it,"  she  said. 

"No,  by  Heaven,  it  can  not  be!"  He  knelt  on  one 
knee  beside  her  and  caught  her  hands  and  crushed 
them  in  his.  They  were  cold.  "My  love,  my  love, 
you  must  not  fail  yourself  so,  you  who  are  very 
queen  of  life  and  strength,  you  can  not  yield  to 
what's  base.  Dear,  be  true!  What  is  fame  or 
power  if  true  men  despise  you  ?     Who  cares  if  all 


THE    SURPRISE    OF    LUCINDA      219 

fails  here?  We  have  our  honor  still  and  our  love, 
and  we  are  lords  of  life." 

Lucinda  laughed  again.  "Mad  Quixote.  Silly, 
mad  Quixote,"  she  said.  "Good-by." 

Colonel  Stow  looked  at  her  a  long  time.  His 
lips  were  trembling  and  she  mocked  at  him.  He 
rose  unsteadily  and  went  out  like  a  blind  man. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

COLONEL  STOW  WARNS  HIS  FRIEND 

A  /TOLLY,  the  cake  girl,  saw  a  lithe  woman 
-'-'^-^  speed  by  her  window  to  the  door  of  Colonel 
Royston's  lodging.  "Hey!  This  is  a  new  busi- 
ness," said  she. 

Colonel  Royston  was  killing  the  hours  by  carving 
elaborate  chessmen  (he  had  always  a  taste  in  that 
kind  and  there  is  still  a  set — ^but  that  is  no  matter 
here) .  Sudden,  silent,  there  stood  against  his  door 
a  tall  woman  in  black.  He  put  down  his  tool  gen- 
tly. He  was  not  a  man  of  surprises,  nor  for  all 
his  bulk,  clumsy.  She  threw  back  her  hood,  her 
cloak.  He  saw  Lucinda,  lithe,  strong,  her  vivid  lips 
and  hair,  her  eyes  fiercely  bright.  She  was  all 
black  from  chin  to  the  ground,  save  for  silver  about 
her  bosom. 

"You  are  most  appealing,"  said  Colonel  Royston 
with  a  sneer  as  he  rose. 

She  looked  about  the  little,  dark,  wainscoted  room. 
"You  are  quite  alone?"  she  breathed. 

"  'Tis  immodest  as  you  could  desire,"  Royston 
sneered. 

"I  am  beyond  all  that,"  said  Lucinda  quietly.  She 
220 


COLONEL  STOW  WARNS  HIS  FRIEND    221 

sat  by  his  table,  and  putting  her  elbows  on  it  and 
her  chin  on  her  hands,  looked  at  him  full.  "This 
is  a  matter  of  your  life  and  mine." 

"They  are,  I  thank  God,  separate,"  said  Colonel 
Royston. 

Then  he  saw  that  mocking  smile  of  hers.  "Are 
you  afraid?"  There  was  a  ripple  of  mirth  in  her 
voice.     "You  know  that  is  a  lie." 

"I  know  you  can  wake  the  brute  in  me,"  said 
Royston.  "If  that  is  like  to  comfort  you,  you  best 
know." 

She  laughed  outright.  "Do  you  think  I  fear 
you?  Nay,  I  love  you  when  you  shake  off  your 
bonds.  And  you — do  I  wake  nothing  but  the  brute? 
No  longing,  no  joy?  Once  you  had  me  by  your 
heart.     Was  it  sorrow?" 

Colonel  Royston  looked  at  her  long.  "What  is 
it  you  want?"  he  said  gruffly. 

"Life     .     .     .     free  life  and  strength  and  joy." 

Colonel  Royston  rose  and  turned  from  her  and 
kicked  the  dying  logs  to  a  blaze.  "There  is  one 
who  can  give  you  more  than  I,  madame.  My 
friend." 

"I  ,am  done  with  him,"  she  cried. 

Colonel  Royston  muttered  something  under  his 
breath. 

Her  laugh  rang  harsh.  "He!  He  never  knew 
me — a  popinjay,  a  play  actor,  a  mad  knight  errant. 
Now  he  is  pleased  to  cast  me  off — ^because  he  could 
not  suffice  me — a  narrow  fool !" 


222  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Has  he  found  you  out?"  Royston  sneered. 

"He — that  dull,  cold-blooded  thing!  Nay,  I 
have  found  his  weakness.    I  am  done  with  him." 

Royston  laughed  too.  "O,  madame,  no  one  will 
doubt  who  is  in  the  right  of  it.  I'gad,  I  pity  you 
and  give  him  joy.  Whom  have  you  played  traitor 
with  now?" 

"Do  you  believe  that?"  she  said  with  quiet  scorn. 
"Am  I  any  man's  woman?  I'll  give  nothing  for 
who  does  not  give  me  all.  He — he  can  not.  There 
is  no  power  in  him."  She  rose  and  came  to  Royston 
and  put  one  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Nay,  then, 
look  at  me  if  you  do  not  fear."  With  a  quick,  im- 
patient movement  Royston  turned  to  face  her.  He 
was  flushed  and  his  brow  drawn.  There  was  blood 
in  her  cheeks  too.  She  throbbed  and  her  eyes 
glowed  dark  with  eager  life.  "Am  I  fit  for  scorn," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "am  I  naught  for  a  man's 
heart?    Try  me," 

For  a  long  while  they  stood  against  each  other, 
fierce  eyed,  wild  of  heart.  Then,  with  a  strange, 
hoarse  cry,  Royston  caught  her  and  crushed  her 
helpless  and  hurt  against  his  breast.  He  felt  her 
move  in  his  grip  and  her  arms  closed  about  him 
passionately.     She  sought  his  kiss     .     .     . 

Panting,  crimson,  she  struggled  away  and  held 
him  from  her  at  the  full  length  of  her  arm.  "No," 
she  gasped.  "No,  I  can  not  bear  it.  O,  that  is  life 
indeed." 


COLONEL  STOW  WARNS  HIS  FRIEND    223 

Royston  gripped  her  hand.  "I  have  you  now. 
You  are  for  me,  for  me.     I'll  not  spare  you." 

Her  lips  were  parted,  she  trembled  a  little.  Her 
face  told  pain.  Then  a  smile  transformed  it  and 
her  eyes  shone.  She  opened  her  arms.  "I  ask  no 
mercy,"  she  said.  Again  she  was  close  against  him. 
.  .  .  "We,  we  are  fit  mates!  You  are  fierce 
as  I.    And  I  give.    Ah,  do  I  not?" 

"Give?  Yes.  Heaven  and  hell  in  one.  And  I 
want  all,  by  God!" 

"Heaven  and  hell,"  she  repeated  and  clung  to  him 
and  laughed  again.  "That  is  life  .  .  .  Nay, 
then,  let  me  go,"  and  she  came  from  him  and  flung 
the  casements  open  and  stood  in  the  rush  of  the 
clean  spring  air,  arms  wide,  drinking  it  greedily 
with  swelling  bosom.  Colonel  Royston  stood  apart 
and  watched  her,  his  full,  handsome  face  dark  and 
grim.  He  strode  to  her  and  caught  her  waist  in 
his  arm.  She  did  not  yield;  she  stood  alone,  lithe 
and  strong,  looking  through  the  wind.  "Yes.  We 
shall  make  people  suffer,"  she  said  and  laughed. 

"What  do  we  care?"  quoth  Royston,  compelling 
her  against  him. 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  and  suddenly  turned  to 
him.  "Power,  I  want  power.  You'll  take  me  away 
from  here,  out  of  this  dull  decay?" 

"Zounds,  I  ask  no  better,"  he  laughed.  "I  have 
had  no  joy  here,  and  we  had  never  come  but  for 
you,  mistress."     He  took  her  face  in  his  hand  and 


324  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

turned  it  to  please  himself.  "I  suppose  you  want  to 
meet  Jerry  as  much  as  I  do,"  he  sneered. 

"I  hate  him!     I  despise  him!" 

Royston  shrugged.     "Because  he'll  despise  us?" 

"O,  you  make  an  idol  of  that  fool !"  she  cried  pas- 
sionately. "Faith,  I'll  teach  you  better.  I'll  leave 
you  no  taste  for  him." 

"I  believe  that,"  growled  Royston. 

Below  stairs  they  heard  Colonel  Stow's  voice.  Lu- 
cinda  sprang  away,  catching  wildly  at  her  cloak. 
Royston  flung  open  the  door  of  his  bed-chamber  and 
signed  her  in.  Then  he  sat  down  again  and  with 
slow  care  began  to  carve  his  chessmen. 

Colonel  Stow  came  in.  Royston  looked  up  to 
nod  at  him  carelessly.  He  appeared  lean  and  har- 
rassed.  "You  are  alone?"  Royston  waved  his  tool 
to  the  empty  room.  "They  said  you  had  a  lady 
with  you." 

"O,  bah,  a  woman  of  naught,"  said  Royston  with 
vigor.  "And  she  will  not  trouble  you.  She  is 
gone." 

Colonel  Stow  sat  down  heavily  and  was  as  if  his 
strength  had  gone  out  of  him.  He  became  con- 
scious of  some  contempt  in  Royston's  stare.  "Do  I 
look  a  weakling,  George?  I  know.  I  am  ashamed 
that  it  hurts  me  so.  By  Heaven,  I  am  a  coward." 
He  shivered  and  contrived  to  affect  a  joyless  smile. 
"Yes,  you  don't  sec  the  best  of  me,  George.  I  can 
not  hide  from  you.  I — I  shall  go  on.  But  I  am 
afraid.     I  have  nothing  in  life  to  trust." 


COLONEL  STOW  WARNS  HIS  FRIEND    225 

Royston  gave  a,  crooked  smile.  "Not  even  me," 
he  said. 

Colonel  Stow  reached  for  his  hand,  but  the  grav- 
ing tool  was  in  it  and  Royston  laughed.  "You.  Yes, 
you  have  given  up  enough  for  me." 

"O,  lud,  do  not  be  grateful,"  Royston  cried. 
"Well,  I  judge  from  your  cryptic  lamentations  ma- 
dame  is  unkind?" 

"That  is  finished." 

"I  give  you  joy.     She  never  deserved  you." 

Colonel  Stow  shrugged.  "Is  that  comfort?  .  .  . 
Well  ...  I  must  needs  tell  you  .  .  .  It  is 
over    .     .     .     She     .     .     .     she  is  base." 

"Good  lack,  does  that  surprise  you?"  Royston 
gave  a  harsh  laugh. 

"I  would  to  God  it  had  been  I !"  Colonel  Stow 
cried.     "If  I  had  played  traitor,  little  matter.    But 

she,  she  that  was  the  heart  of  my  life "     He 

turned  away  to  hide  his  face  and  Royston  heard 
him  groan.  "Bah,  I  am  a  fool  to  come  whining  so, 
but  it  is  an  ease  to  speak  to  you,  George." 

Colonel  Royston  was  not  gentle.  "You  were  a 
fool  with  her,"  he  said.  "She  understood  you  as  I 
do  a  virgin  saint.  She  cared  as  much  for  your  kind 
of  love  as  I  do  for  religion.  And  you  must  be  mak- 
ing an  angel  of  her  who  was  just  a  wild  woman. 
Lud,  I  have  been  waiting  for  the  tragedy." 

Colonel  Stow  thrust  back  his  hair.  "O,  I  have 
been  a  dreamer.  I  know  .  .  .  and  still,  by 
Heaven,    I    am   glad   of   the   dream    .    .    .    Well, 


226  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

'tis  done  .  .  .  George,  she  bade  me  play  traitor. 
And  now,  when  we  are  come  to  the  turn  of  the 
fight." 

"The  better  pay  for  treason,"  Royston  shrugged. 

"The  more  damnable  shame,"  said  Colonel  Stow 
sharply.  He  looked  long  at  his  friend.  "George,  I 
do  not  know,  but — but  I  have  thought  that  you 
had  a  kindness  for  her.  If  'tis  not  so,  well.  And 
I  know  you  have  had  ill  luck  here.  She  might 
seek — well,  you'll  not  let  her  work  on  you?  She 
has  a  devilish  art  to  kindle  a  man." 

Royston  laughed.  "Ha,  now  we  come  to  It  I 
am  warned  to  be  righteous,  am  I  ?  I  would  not 
take  it  from  any  man  alive.  As  for  your  woman, 
I  know  her  well  enough  for  what  she  is,  wild 
life  without  honor  or  shame.  She  is  naught  to  me 
and  shall  be  so,  I  swear."  He  laughed  with  more 
vigor  than  Colonel  Stow  understood.  "And  for 
myself,  I'll  have  my  own  will,  and  go  my  own  way, 
in  spite  of  every  woman  out  of  hell.  Bah,  what 
have  I  to  do  with  loyalty?  I  am  loyal  to  who  pays 
me.  That's  the  creed  for  a  gentleman  of  the  sword. 
It  was  yours  once  and  is  still  mine.  I  have  pledged 
no  faith  here.  I  have  no  trust  to  answer.  If  it 
serves  my  turn  to  stay,  I'll  stay.  If  it  suits  me  best 
to  be  Puritan,  I'll  go.  And  who  is  in  the  right  to 
reproach  me?  What  have  they  done  to  keep  me 
here?    Zounds,  I  will  be  schooled  by  no  man." 

Colonel  Stow  rested  his  head  on  his  hand.     "I 


COLONEL  STOW  WARNS  HIS  FRIEND    227 

have  asked  enough  of  you,  I  know.  I  have  brought 
you  to  an  ill  cause.    You'll  forgive  me,  George?" 

"O,  lud,  have  done  with  that.  I  have  no  blame 
for  you.  Have  none  for  me.  Let  us  go  our  own 
ways." 

Colonel  Stow  looked  up  quickly.  "We  are  friends 
still?" 

"If  you  can  be,"  said  Royston  with  a  sneer.  "But 
I  have  my  own  life  to  live." 

"I  know,"  said  Colonel  Stow  sadly.  "I  know." 
And  again  he  looked  long  silent  at  his  friend.  "Well 
.  .  .  we  go  on  .  .  .  Do  you  feel  blind, 
George  ?" 

Royston  did  not  answer.  He  let  Colonel  Stow 
take  his  hand  and  grip  it  as  he  went  out. 

The  door  clanged,  his  spurs  clanked  over  the 
stones  and  Lucinda  started  out  of  hiding.  "Faith, 
sir,  you  had  fair  words  for  me,"  she  cried.  "You 
forget  that  I  heard  all." 

"I  meant  you  to,"  said  Colonel  Royston. 

"You  mock  me,  then?" 

"He  mocked  you  when  he  thought  you  an  angel," 
Colonel  Royston  gave  an  ugly  laugh.  "O,  you 
shall  not  cheat  yourself  nor  me.  We  have  done 
with  honor  now.  We  stand  for  ourselves.  We  are 
greedy  for  all  the  pride  of  life.  But,  i'  God's  name, 
let  us  have  no  sham  of  virtue  to  ourselves.  It  makes 
me  sick." 

She  came  to  him,  peering  close  at  him  in  the 


22«     COLONEL  GREATHEART 

gloom  while  her  fingers  twisted  in  his  sash.  He 
was  sneering.     "Yes,  you  are  strong,"  she  said. 

"The  worse  for  us  both.  Well,  we  must  be  gone 
out  of  this  place.     When  can  you  be  ready?" 

She  laughed.  "Ah,  you  are  afraid  to  face  Colonel 
Stow  again." 

"Yes."  Royston  frowned  at  her.  "I  am,  by 
God.  You  have  ruined  us  two.  It  was  you  that 
brought  us  to  this  cursed  cause.  You  have  broken 
his  life.  You  have  dragged  us  apart.  I  shall  not 
forget.    And  I  think  you  will  pay  for  all  with  me." 

He  saw  that  strange,  mocking  smile  of  hers. 
"Let  us  try,"  she  said  and  put  her  hands  in  his. 
They  were  crushed  till  she  bit  her  lips  for  the  pain. 
She  came  nearer  still,  and  her  breast  touched  his 
.     .     .     They  were  lost     .     .     . 

"When  will  you  come  with  me?"  said  Royston 
hoarsely.    "When  can  you  be  gone?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will  go  when  you  will,"  she  gasped. 
"Now — ^to-night,  if  it  please  you.  Nay,  but  enough 
now.     Let  me  go." 

She  sank  to  a  chair  and  tried  to  compose  herself. 
In  a  moment  she  was  gay  with  bubbling  laughter. 
"Do  you  know  why  we  quarreled?  He  had  some 
tale  of  a  mighty  great  convoy  that  is  coming  from 
Bristol.  If  it  falls  to  the  Puritans,  says  he,  we  are 
all  undone.  Why,  then,  take  the  tidings  to  the  Puri- 
tans, quoth  I,  give  them  the  last  victory  and  make 
your  profit  of  it.   Then  monsieur  was  all  of  a  flame, 


COLONEL  STOW  WARNS  HIS  FRIEND    229 

like  a  fool  in  a  tragedy.  Is't  not  delicate?  For 
now  we  can  have  our  advantage  of  it.  Do  you  bear 
the  news  to  Cromwell  and  make  your  fortune." 

"I  will  go  bail  the  devil  is  a  woman,"  said  Roy- 
ston,  glowering  down  at  her. 

She  gave  back  his  own  words  with  a  laugh,  "O, 
we  have  done  with  honor  now." 

But  Royston  was  in  a  difficulty  you  would  not 
expect  her  to  understand.  Out  of  battle,  your  gen- 
tleman of  the  sword  might  change  sides  when  he 
chose,  but  he  must  not  bear  the  plans  of  one  to 
the  other.  That  was  bred  in  Colonel  Royston  with 
his  profession,  but  not  in  Lucinda.  For  him  who 
had  broken  faith  with  his  friend  to  let  the  etiquette 
of  the  mercenary  stay  him  from  a  profitable  treason 
was  plainly  ridiculous.  She  gazed  at  him  in  won- 
dering contempt.  Even  he,  then,  had  some  of  the 
stupid  scruples  of  Colonel  Stow.  She  despised  all 
men  for  creatures  chained  in  convention.  .  .  . 
But  Colonel  Royston  was  not  in  a  mood  to  hesitate 
long.  To  possess  her  he  had  cast  away  already  the 
best  thing  he  had.  The  rest  went  light.  .  .  . 
Swiftly  he  saw  his  account  in  her  tale — how  to  make 
it  sound  fairly  to  the  Puritans  and  give  him  foot- 
ing there.  "Well,  what  more  do  you  know,  ma- 
dame  spy?"  quoth  he  with  a  grim  smile.  "When 
does  your  precious  convoy  come?  Who  has  it  in 
command?" 

"It  is  close  here  now,  I  think.  They  are  to 
send  out  some  force  to  escort  it  in." 


230  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Ay,  that  will  be  to  Witney,"  said  Royston  to 
himself.     "And  who  is  in  command?" 

Lucinda  had  the  wit  to  lie.  She  could  feel  that 
if  he  were  told  the  truth  then,  if  he  knew  the  con- 
voy were  trusted  to  Colonel  Stow,  he  would  have 
none  of  the  treason.  He  was  not  ready  yet  to  hurt 
the  fame  of  his  friend.  A  word  of  the  truth  then 
had  changed  the  fortune  of  more  lives  than  theirs. 
But  she  lied  easily.  "Nay,  I  do  not  know  that.  He 
did  not  tell  me." 

"Two  regiments,  may  be,"  said  Colonel  Royston 
to  himself  and  walked  to  the  window.  "They  will 
not  go  beyond  Witney.  It  would  be  neater  to  snatch 
the  convoy  first."  He  faced  round  on  her.  "When 
[do  they  come?" 

.  "At  once.  To-morrow,  I  think,"  she  said  hastily. 
She  did  not  know  him  in  this  mood.  The  keen 
note  of  command  troubled  her,  made  her  unsure. 

"So.  We  must  be  gone  to-night.  You  must 
leave  your  fine  dresses  behind.  You  can  take  no 
more  than  you  brought.  Be  ready  for  me  in  two 
hours.     I  will  have  a  horse  for  you." 

"O,  you  are  too  masterful,  sir." 

"I'll  be  that  with  you  or  nothing,"  growled  Roy- 
ston, frowning  at  her  .  .  .  "and,  by  Heaven,  I 
do  not  much  care  which." 

She  gave  a  reckless  laugh.  "I  swear  that  you 
shall,"  she  said  and  put  up  her  lips  to  be  kissed. 

A  little  while  before,  Colonel  Stow,  turning  in 
under  Tom  Tower,  was  saluted  by  the  officer  of 


COLONEL  STOW  WARNS  HIS  FRIEND    231 

the  King's  Guard.  While  he  answered  he  saw  that 
it  was  Gilbert  Bourne.  With  a  queer  laugh  he 
turned  aside  to  grip  the  lad's  hand.  "You  were 
the  luckier,"  he  said  and  went  on  his  way. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

THE  LIEUTENANT  GENERAL  FINDS  AN  HONEST  MAN 

**  I  ^  HROUGH  the  windy  dark,  Lucinda  rode  with 
•*•  Royston  and  thought  of  a  night  when  she  was 
borne  in  another  man's  arms.  It  was  springtime 
again  and  the  wild  thrill  of  it  in  the  air,  but  Colonel 
Royston  was  not  inspired.  He  had  not  the  dreams 
of  his  friend  nor  the  longing  to  give  Lucinda  a 
new  life.  She  sufficed  to  him  what  she  was.  And 
he  put  her  by.  His  mind  was  devoted  to  the  prac- 
tical need  of  the  instant,  to  the  neat  detour  that 
brought  them  out  of  Oxford  unseen,  unsuspected,  by 
the  north  road  and  round  the  fords  at  Godstow  and 
Witham  to  Cumnor,  safe  on  the  Abingdon  road.  It 
was  a  perfect  evasion.  Then,  with  the  methodical 
carefulness  that  distinguished  him,  he  made  up  his 
story  for  Cromwell.  Of  the  life  beyond,  of  the 
woman's  call,  he  had  no  care.  It  may  be  that  his 
mind  shrank  from  it  But  Lucinda  remembered 
the  earlier  time. 

It  was  a  dark  gray  sky,  broken  in  gulfs  of  blue 
that  bore  the  stars.  They  gave  light  enough  to 
make  all  things  vague.  Royston  rode  beside  her 
like  a  creature  of  dream ;  the  hedge-rows  stood  vast 

232 


AN    HONEST    MAN  233 

and  fantastic;  the  very  road  played  tricks  with  her 
eyes,  turned  when  it  went  straight,  was  rough  when 
it  was  smooth.  More  than  once,  fancying  she  saw  a 
brook  or  a  quag,  she  reined  up  sharp.  "Zounds,  what 
ails  you?"  cried  Royston  at  last,  startled  from  his 
plans. 

"This  road  is  mad,  I  think,  or  my  eyes."  Then, 
with  a  nervous  laugh,  "We  are  mad,  you  know." 

"And  we  will  ride  on,  by  God,"  said  Royston. 

The  west  wind  came  across  them,  tingling  and 
keen.  On  either  side  the  trees  were  loud  in  a  wild 
chorus  and  changing  color  and  shape  for  each  mo- 
ment. Feathery,  powdered  catkins  brushed  across 
their  faces  and  now  a  light  bough  beaten  down 
stung  like  a  whip  as  they  passed.  All  the  night  was 
full  of  ghostly  fear  and  tumult  and  strife.  When 
they  came  down  the  slope  to  the  wide,  dark  river 
levels  the  uncurbed  wind  smote  stronger,  whistling 
shrill  about  them  and  buffeting  with  mighty  thrusts. 
She  cowered  before  it  and  shrank  into  her  hood  and 
shivered.  All  along  the  way  the  pollard  willows 
tossed  in  mad  shapes  like  ghastly  dwarfs  adance. 
Her  mind  was  away  in  strange,  ill  dreams.  She 
felt  herself  caught  in  some  grim  mockery  of  life, 
where  nothing  was  real  and  nothing  made  glad. 
And  still  she  was  pierced  with  memories  of  that 
earlier  time,  of  that  wild  night  of  joy  when  he  had 
made  her  feel  the  very  spirit  of  the  world's  force. 
.  .  .  She  looked  uneasily  at  Royston.  But  he 
had  no  care  for  her.     He  rode  erect,  staring  right 


234  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

on,  his  mind  knit  upon  his  own  plans,  .  .  . 
And  the  wind  yelled  at  her  and  the  clouds  banked 
thicker  before  it  and  the  stars  went  out. 

She  was  mightily  weary  and  cold  before,  out  of  a 
heavier  mass  of  darkness,  tiny  lights  mocked  at 
them.  In  a  moment  after  came  the  challenge  of 
the  outposts  at  Abingdon. 

"Who  goes?    Who  goes?    Halt  or  I  fire." 

"Travelers  to  lie  at  Abingdon,"  quoth  Colonel 
Royston. 

"Whence  come  ye?" 

"From  Oxford." 

"Guard!     Turn  out,  guard!" 

Royston  turned  to  Lucinda  with  a  sneering  smile. 
"They  are  naiVe  here.  No  place  for  you."  But 
Colonel  Royston  himself  never  understood  the  Puri- 
tan simplicity.  If  he  had  he  had  made  another 
end. 

A  sergeant  came  with  his  lantern  and  held  it 
aloft  to  scan  them.     "Ye  are  out  of  Oxford?" 

"Ay." 

"Why  seek  ye  this  godly  army?" 

"Sir,  for  edification." 

"The  Lord  advance  it!  But  wherefore  in  the 
company  of  a  woman?" 

"Regard  me  as  her  redeemer.  In  fine,  sir,  I  have 
been  her  salvation.  She  hath  put  me  in  the  godly 
mind  to  seek  you  out." 

"I  like  you  not,  young  man.  Nevertheless,  ye 
may  be  even  as  Lot  which  fled  out  of  Sodom.    Pur- 


AN    HONEST    MAN  235 

sue  not  his  evil  example.  And  in  any  case  you 
will  go  before  the  lieutenant  general." 

"It  is  my  earnest  desire,"  said  Royston.  "Hav- 
ing first  found  a  lodging  for  the  lady,  who  is  all 
aweary."  He  preferred  to  deal  with  Cromwell 
alone. 

"The  lieutenant  general  desires  no  women,"  quoth 
the  sergeant  with  scorn.    "March !" 

"Happy  man !"  quoth  Royston.  As  he  walked 
his  horse  forward  the  sergeant  took  the  bridle  and 
so  with  a  pikeman  on  either  hand  and  Lucinda  fol- 
lowing meekly,  they  came  to  Abingdon.  The  nar- 
row street  was  all  peaceful.  There  was  no  sign 
of  soldiery,  no  rabble,  no  loungers.  Only  through 
the  lighted  windows  they  could  see  the  gathering 
of  companies  and  they  heard  chanting  and  the  elect 
whine  of  Puritan  prayer. 

"And  what  of  a  lodging?"  quoth  Royston.  "I 
suppose  all  your  inns  are  full  to  the  door  of  god- 
liness?" 

"No  man  of  this  army  lies  in  a  tavern  who  can 
find  him  another  bed,"  said  the  sergeant  severely. 

Royston  whistled.  But  he  had  met  fanatics  be- 
fore and  knew  their  strength.  The  sergeant  was 
no  boaster.  It  proved  easy  to  find  Lucinda  lodging 
at  the  Green  Man  Inn.  Royston  was  led  on  to  the 
house  called  the  Abbey  by  the  river. 

It  was  a  room  of  bare  brick  walls  set  with  timber 
and  high,  dim,  timbered  roof.  The  candles  flick- 
ered and  guttered  in  the  crossing  drafts.    Colonel 


336  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Royston  stopped  short  and  saluted.  He  was  not 
used  to  admire  other  men.  But,  "this  is  the  first 
King  I  have  seen  in  England,"  said  he  to  himself. 

It  was  no  beauty,  at  least.  A  big,  loose  man 
that  spread  over  his  chair ;  the  wisp  of  linen  at  the 
collar  of  his  buff  coat  was  crumpled  and  stained 
with  blood;  his  face  was  coarse,  fleshy  and  red,  but 
the  hard  angles  of  the  bones  stood  out  and  in  the 
midst  a  mighty  ridge,  a  stockade  of  a  nose;  there 
was  something  that  might  have  been  desire  for 
moustachios  or  lack  of  a  razor;  his  under  lip  was 
cracked  and  raw;  his  hair  hung  in  a  lank  mass  of 
pale  brown.  But  there  was  height  in  the  ample 
brow  and  the  seaming  furrows  of  endurance  and 
thought.  But  his  eyes  had  the  true  light  of  steel 
and  a  ruthless  strength. 

The  lieutenant  general  surveyed  Colonel  Roy- 
ston, who  liked  it  well  enough.  He  never  doubted 
his  own  powers.    "Who  art  thou,  friend?" 

"George  Royston,  sometime  major  in  the  service 
of  Gustav  Adolf  and  colonel  with  the  Duke  of 
Weimar." 

"What  make  you  here?" 

"Safety  for  a  woman,  work  for  myself." 

A  man  who  had  been  writing  at  Cromwell's  el- 
bow looked  up  at  the  neat  phrase.  This  was  one 
with  an  air  of  some  refinement,  trim  and  precise, 
the  commissary  general,  Ireton.  "You  come  from 
Oxford?"  said  he  amiably. 

"A  plain  tale  can  be  brief,  sir.     I  came  to  Eng- 


AN    HONEST    MAN  237 

land  on  a  quarrel  with  M.  de  Turenne.  I  am  bred 
to  war  and  born  for  it,  but  little  skilled  in  the  mat- 
ter of  politic.  I  chose  the  King,  because  the  King's 
cause  should  be  England's."  He  laughed.  "That 
fancy  amuses  me  now,  gentlemen.  I  have  been  in 
Oxford.  Yes,  I  have  been  in  Oxford  and  seen  the 
Popish  lasciviousness  of  that  court  and  the  rule  of 
fools.  I  found  swiftly  that  it  was  no  place  for  a 
soldier  who  honored  himself  and  feared  God.  I 
made  my  resolve  to  seek  the  honest  cause — ^yours, 
sir."  He  saluted  stiffly.  "I'll  confess  I  was  hast- 
ened at  the  last  by  the  persecution  of  an  honorable 
lady.  It  was  a  maid  brought  to  that  Babylon  by 
her  mother,  my  Lady  Weston.  She  dying,  left  the 
girl  friendless.  She  was  thereafter  pursued  by  the 
lordlings  of  that  vile  court  most  shamefully — 
bah,  I  am  hot  at  speaking  of  it.  Well.  She  could 
get  there  no  succor  nor  redress.  Then  I — for  I  pro- 
fess an  honest  affection  for  her — bade  her  come  with 
me  to  a  camp  where  men  regard  the  honor  of  wom- 
en. The  which  she  hath  done.  I  have  lodged  her 
here  and  am  here  to  serve  you.     I  can  do  it." 

"You  say  well,  friend,"  quoth  Cromwell. 

The  commissary  general,  who  was  tapping  his 
cheek  with  a  quill,  smiled  pleasantly.  "And  how 
would  you  seek  to  serve?"  said  he. 

"Sir,  I  have  fought  against  Papists  fifteen  years 
and  held  many  commands,  whereof  you  shall  have 
proof  at  your  leisure.  My  skill  is  in  chief  with 
musket  and  pike,  but  for  that,  time  enough.    There 


238  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

is  more  pressing  matter.  Sir,  ere  I  left  Oxford  to- 
day there  came  to  me  by  a  braggart  captain  in 
liquor,  tidings  of  that  which  touches  your  fortune. 
I  take  no  shame  to  tell  you.  I  have  no  faith  to 
keep  with  that  foul  court.  So  then.  They  are  in  ill 
straits  for  arms  and  powder.  Their  whole  hope  in 
the  war  depends  on  a  new  great  convoy.  This 
comes  from  Bristol  and  hath  now  been  days  upon 
the  road.  It  journeys  with  little  guard,  but  they 
will  send  out  from  Oxford  a  force  to  meet  it — and, 
sir,  it  should  come  to  Burford  or  Witney  by  to- 
morrow. But  if  it  fall  to  you  and  not  to  them  you 
have  gone  far  to  end  the  war." 

The  frown  gathered  on  Cromwell's  brow.  He 
began  with  a  score  of  sharp  questions.  How  great 
was  this  convoy?  with  what  force?  at  what  speed 
could  it  move?  and  the  like.  To  all  Royston  had  a 
quick  answer,  true  or  false.  Cromwell  looked  on 
him  with  favor.  "Thou  art  a  ready  man,  friend. 
The  Lord  needs  such." 

"Therefore,  doubtless,  He  made  me  so,"  said 
Colonel  Royston  devoutly. 

"O,  sir,  hold  fast  to  that !"  Cromwell  cried.  "Thou 
art  made  unto  His  glory  and  miserably  dost  thou 
fail  it.  Yet  be  of  good  heart  and  so  run  that  thou 
mayest  obtain." 

"It  is  ever  my  design,  sir,"  said  Colonel  Royston 
quite  sincerely. 

Cromwell  thrust  out  his  arms  over  his  head.  "O, 
laggards,   laggards !     The   Lord  deliver  me   from 


AN    HONEST    MAN  239 

laggards!  Sir,  there  is  naught  to  be  feared  but 
our  own  sin  and  sloth." 

"Wherein,  alas,  we  are  too  well  provided,"  said 
Royston. 

Cromwell's  hands  fell.  His  face  was  grave  and 
sad.  "You  say  well,"  he  muttered,  and  appeared  to 
talk  to  himself. 

The  commissary  general  had  remained  always 
amiable  of  air.  "And  do  I  hear  you  promise  the 
capture  of  this  convoy?"  he  asked. 

"Spare  a  regiment  of  horse  in  the  morning,  let  me 
be  its  guide  and  I'll  answer  for  all." 

"It  is  very  handsome  in  you,"  the  commissary 
murmured  and  glanced  from  him  to  Cromwell. 
"The  gentleman  desires  to  be  trusted  with  a  regi- 
ment, sir." 

"The  Lord,  the  Lord  shall  laugh  at  him,"  mut- 
tered Cromwell.  "What  is't?  A  regiment,  quotha?" 
He  bent  his  brows  upon  Royston.  "Well.  And  how 
wouldst  thou  go  with  it,  friend?" 

Colonel  Royston  was  ready.  A  swift  detour  by 
Newbridge  should  bring  them  astride  the  western 
road  on  the  farther  side  of  Witney.  Then,  putting 
out  a  picket  to  guard  them  from  Oxford,  they  would 
send  vedettes  out  westward  to  make  touch  with  the 
convoy,  find  it,  capture  it  and  strike  for  Abingdon 
again. 

"It  likes  me  well,"  said  Cromwell. 

"Colonel  Budd's  horse,  sir?"  quoth  the  commis- 
sary quickly. 


240  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"A  very  lovely  company.    Sir,  put  all  on  God." 

"I  will  make  my  endeavor,  sir,"  said  Royston  and 
saluted,  and  was  going. 

"We  will  provide  you  a  billet,  sir,"  said  the  com- 
missary again  in  some  haste. 

Colonel  Royston  saluted  him,  too,  and  was  dis- 
missed in  the  charge  of  a  sergeant. 

"There  is  a  soul  in  an  honest,  thriving  way," 
quoth  Cromwell. 

"I  should  have  liked  him  better,"  said  the  com- 
missary, "if  he  had  offered  us  nothing." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT 

AT  WITNEY  TOWN 

COLONEL  ROYSTON  was  waked  from  his  bed 
of  clean  hay  at  dawn,  but  he  did  not  .arrive  in 
the  quarters  of  Colonel  Jacob  Budd  in  time  to  hear 
a  conversation  of  the  commissary.  "The  orders  are 
plain  to  you,  Colonel?" 

"Plain,  sir.  May  I  be  God's  executioner!  And 
if  it  be  not  so ;  if  this  one  that  guides  me  prove  an 
hireling,  a  man  of  Belial " 

"Why,  you  may  still  be  God's  executioner,"  said 
the  commissary,  smiling.  ^ 

Colonel  Budd  almost  laughed.  In  a  little  while 
came  Colonel  Royston.  The  commissary  saluted 
him  affably.  "Colonel  Budd,  this  is  Colonel  George 
Royston,  who  hath  designed  this  fair  work.  I  would 
have  you  know  him  well." 

"The  honor  is  mine,"  said  Colonel  Royston. 

Colonel  Budd  did  not  deny  it. 

"The  lieutenant  general  bids  you  to  breakfast," 
said  the  commissary. 

Colonel  Royston  appreciated  the  honor,  but  his 
appetite  was  something  affected  by  the  lieutenant 
general    taking    occasion    to    expound    the   second 

241 


242  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

beast  of  the  apocalypse.  Colonel  Budd  differed 
from  his  general  concerning  the  significance  of  the 
first  horn,  said  so  and  they  parted  hot. 

"Well,  sir,  well,  shall  we  ride?"  said  Royston 
eagerly,  as  they  came  out  together. 

"After  some  small  exercise,"  said  Colonel  Budd. 

Colonel  Budd  paraded  his  regiment  in  the  mead- 
ows by  the  Ock  and  there  wrestled  in  prayer  for  the 
space  of  half  an  hour,  the  troopers  groaning  or  giv- 
ing praise  as  they  were  moved.  Colonel  Royston 
chiefly  groaned.  But  he  confessed  that  in  the  end 
they  wheeled  beautifully  into  column  of  troop.  They 
took  the  road  for  Kingston  Bagpuize  chanting,  not 
sweetly — 

O,  Lord  God,  unto  Whom  alone  all  vengeance  doth 
belong; 

O,  mighty  God,  Who  vengeance  own'st,  shine  forth, 
avenging  wrong; 

Lift  up  Thyself,  Thou  of  the  earth  the  sovereign 
Judge  that  art. 

And  unto  them  that  are  so  proud  a  due  reward  im- 
part 

They  had  certainly  a  vile  ear  for  music,  but  it 
annoyed  Colonel  Royston  that  he  could  find  no 
other  fault  with  them.  They  were  men  of  seasoned 
strength,  and  their  bearing  approved  them  soldierly. 
They  were  equipped  to  admiration,  with  breasts  and 
backs  of  steel  over  their  buff  coats,  pot  helmets,  a 


AT   WITNEY   TOWN  243 

pair  of  long  pistols  each  and  a  sword.  There  was 
hardly  a  worthless  charger  in  the  regiment.  Sturdy 
beasts,  plainly  bred  in  the  fen  levels,  there  could  be 
no  better  for  a  campaign  in  the  valleys  and  heavy 
turf  hills  of  middle  England.  Not  the  guard  of 
Gustavus  was  better  provided.  Colonel  Royston 
thought  with  a  sneer  of  the  ragged  squadrons  of 
King  Charles.  So  they  rode  on,  a  goodly  sight,  a 
long  trail  of  steel,  between  the  whitening  willows  of 
the  flat  grass  lands,  while  the  wayward  sunlight 
flashed  on  their  arms  and  made  splendor  in  the  thin 
cloud  of  dust. 

In  a  space  between  psalms  Colonel  Jacob  Budd 
engaged  Colonel  Royston's  attention.  "Thou  art 
surely  a  brand  snatched  from  the  burning,  my  good 
friend?" 

"It  was  I  did  the  snatching." 

Colonel  Budd  groaned.  "I  perceive  thou  art  yet 
far  from  the  truth  and  in  the  bondage  of  Arminius !" 

"I  do  not  know  him." 

"'Tis  a  minister  of  Beelzebub." 

Colonel  Royston  shook  his  head.  "I  can  not  give 
you  joy  of  your  acquaintance." 

"Which  taught  the  abominable  heresy  that  who- 
soever will,  may  be  saved.  Whereas,  friend,  where- 
as (as  I  shall  look  to  expound  to  you  more  gener- 
ously), the  sweet  truth  is,  there  be  some  elected  to 
damnation,  which  they  can  by  no  means  escape.  And 
this  shall  be  a  goodly  comfort,  for  it  is  all  to  the 
glory  of  God." 


244  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Colonel  Royston  grunted.  Never  a  man  had  less 
taste  for  theology  than  he. 

"And  look  you,  if  thou  dost  think  (poor  worm!) 
that  thou  hast  saved  thyself,  thou  art  still  in  the 
blindness  of  sin.  No  man  saveth  himself,  seeing 
that  all  are  worms.  Yet  some  in  the  all-seeing 
providence  of  God  are  elected  to  salvation  and  by 
no  strength  nor  good  works  of  their  own  are  saved. 
Whereof  they  have  a  sweet  and  blessed  assurance. 
There  is  also  another  assurance,  the  assurance  of 
damnation,  which  I  would  give  you." 

"I'gad,"  cried  Royston.  "I  have  a  very  certain 
assurance  of  damnation  if  we  go  across  the  river 
with  no  vedettes  out." 

Colonel  Budd  scowled  at  him.  It  was  the  more 
objectionable  in  that  it  could  not  be  denied.  They 
were  already  close  upon  the  river  and  beyond  lay 
the  enemy's  country.  He  gave  hoarse  orders  (Roy- 
ston marked  with  disdain  the  use  of  the  stiff  Dutch 
drill  for  the  simpler  Swedish)  and  the  column  of 
route  was  protected  with  double  vedettes  and  an 
advance  guard  before  they  came  to  Newbridge. 

Swollen  with  the  spring  rains,  the  two  rivers  came 
turbid  and  swift  and  crashed  against  each  other  in 
a  whirlpool  of  foam  and  roared  through  the  narrow 
stone  arches.  On  the  bridge  the  regiment  halted 
while  the  vedettes  thrust  forward  under  the  trees 
up  the  diverging  tracks.  There  was  no  danger,  and 
at  the  old  pace,  but  fallen  silent,  they  took  the  road 
to  Witney.     Soon  there  were  no  more  trees.     They 


AT    WITNEY    TOWN  245 

rode  over  a  dead  level  of  flat  land  where  the  fur- 
rows already  were  richly  green.  Laborers  straight- 
ened themselves  and  leaned  on  their  hoes,  gazing 
stolidly  while  the  regiment  passed  and  stolidly  fell 
to  work  again.  It  was  not  a  war  of  the  people. 
They  cared  little  for  its  moves  or  its  fortune,  and 
to  make  a  show,  soldiers  were  stale.  So  through 
Standlake  and  Brighthampton,  where  the  women 
laughed  and  waved  kerchiefs  while  stern  Puri- 
tan troopers  found  ill  names  for  them,  they  made  on 
toward  the  circling  hills. 

Something  after  noon  they  struck  the  road  to  the 
west  upon  the  high  ground  beyond  Witney  and 
straightway  sent  back  a  party  to  watch  for  any  force 
from  Oxford.  The  main  body  of  the  regiment 
moved  westward  at  leisure  while  an  advance  guard 
sped  far  in  front.  But  the  advance  guard  came 
nearly  into  Burford  and  found  nothing  and  the 
main  body  halted  on  the  hill  above  Asthall  and 
made  a  meal  of  biscuit  and  cheese  from  the  knap- 
sacks. Colonel  Royston  went  forward.  It  was  draw- 
ing towards  twilight  when  he  came  back  in  a  hurry 
with  most  of  the  guard  clattering  about  him.  "They 
are  drawn  close  to  Burford,  sir,"  he  cried,  reining 
up.  "A  quarter-mile  of  them,  as  I  judge,  wains  and 
pack  horses,  and  no  guard  at  all." 

"Praise  the  Lord  which  hath  delivered  them  into 
our  hands,"  quoth  Colonel  Budd. 

"Let's  hatch  our  chickens  before  we  count  'em," 
said  Royston,  whose  wisdom  was  of  another  color. 


246  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Give  me  leave,  sir;  if  we  wait  them  there  in  the 
hollow  between  the  two  hills  we  shall  be  well  hidden 
and  they  well  caught," 

"What,  sir,  will  you  teach  me?"  cried  Colonel 
Budd. 

"Nay,  sir,  I  could  not,"  said  Royston  smoothly. 
"None  the  less,  will  you  move,  sir?  Will  you  move?" 

Colonel  Budd  snorted  with  wrath.  But  the  plan 
was  so  plainly  best  that  he  could  not  refuse  it.  In 
a  moment  the  regiment  was  dropping  out  of  sight 
down  the  hill.  Once  in  the  hollow  the  half  of  them 
were  dismounted  and  lay  down  in  the  ditches.  A 
squadron  hid  itself  craftily  in  the  hollows  of  the 
slope  of  either  hill.  The  rest,  with  the  led  horses, 
made  toward  the  river  and  were  lost. 

It  was  already  dusk.  The  hapless  convoy  came 
on  innocently.  The  locked  wheels  of  the  wains 
groaned  down  the  hill  while  the  wagoners  cursed 
their  lurching  horses  that  could  not  hold  back 
enough  on  the  loose  road.  There  was  no  more  guard 
than  some  score  mounted  men,  riding  by  twos  and 
threes,  gossiping  together. 

The  first  of  the  wagons  were  down  on  the  level 
and  halted  for  unshackling  their  wheels.  The  whole 
train  stayed  perforce.  Then  from  the  ditch  rose 
Colonel  Budd  and  shouted.  His  dismounted  men 
dashed  upon  the  convoy  and  the  red  flame  of  pow- 
der broke  the  gloom.  On  either  hill  side  the  mount- 
ed squadrons  swept  the  road  and  before  and  behind 
escape  was  barred,  even  if  the  laden  wagons  could 


AT    WITNEY    TOWN  247 

have  made  up  hill  at  speed.  It  was  a  trap  that  might 
have  held  a  fiercer  prey.  The  convoy  was  in  hope- 
less straits.  Its  few  mounted  men  were  pistoled 
speedily  and  the  Puritans  fell  on  the  wretched  wag- 
oners, who  had  no  arms. 

"Quarter,  sir,"  cried  Colonel  Royston  with  an 
oath,  "bid  them  give  quarter." 

"The  curse  of  Saul  be  upon  thee,"  cried  Colonel 
Budd,  and  thundered  to  his  men :  "Smite,  and 
spare  not!  Smite,  and  spare  not!"  He  turned  to 
Royston  again.  "Verily,  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  is 
kindled  against  thee,  for  His  pleasure  is  in  the  blood 
of  His  enemies." 

Colonel  Royston  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of 
disgust  and  made  for  his  horse.  He  loved  war  too 
well  to  like  an  idle  butchery. 

But  the  Puritan  troopers  had  a  holy  lust  for  their 
work.  The  wretched  wagoners  ran  hither  and 
thither  in  a  ghastly  fear,  struck  blindly  with  naked 
hands  at  men  who  kept  them  off  with  steel,  knelt, 
shrieking  piteously  like  children  for  mercy.  There 
was  none.  They  hid  beneath  the  wagons  and  in  the 
ditches  and  the  Puritan  troopers  dragged  them  out 
and  slew.  The  hollows  were  carpeted  with  death 
and  blood. 

So  much  time  they  wasted  on  this  godly  work 
that  it  was  full  dark  before  they  started  the  con- 
voy to  moving  again  and  climbed  away  from  the 
horror. 

Colonel    Budd    came    up    beside    Royston    and 


248  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

touched  his  arm.  "Friend,  I  fear  me  thou  art  an 
Amalekite  at  heart" 

"Friend,"  said  Colonel  Royston,  who  was  in  no 
good  temper,  "I  see  well  thou  art  no  soldier." 

"How  now?"  cried  the  Puritan.  "What  naughty 
frowardness  is  this?  Be  assured  I  am  a  man  set  in 
authority  and — " 

"And  not  fit  for  it,  i'gad,"  cried  Royston.  "But 
for  this  silly  butchery  we  might  have  been  four 
miles  away.  We  move  at  a  foot's  pace  with  all  this 
gear  and  each  hour  this  side  the  river  is  dangerous." 

The  Puritan  laughed.  "I  perceive  you  have  no 
courage,  friend." 

"Not  a  whit  under  your  command.  'Tis  an  111 
fight  when  a  fool  is  colonel." 

"You  shall  answer  that,  sir,"  cried  Colonel  Budd. 
"You  shall  answer  it  to  the  lieutenant  general." 

"I  will  make  good  each  word  if  we  ever  get  to 
him." 

"O  fool  and  faint-hearted!  Verily,  I  can  scarce 
be  angry  with  thee,  thou  art  a  babe  for  fear.  What 
haste  is  there?  We  will  cross  by  the  ford  at  Bab- 
lockhithe  and  be  at  Abingdon  by  midnight" 

"Bablockhithe?"  Royston  gasped  in  most  honest 
amazement.     "Bablockhithe?" 

"Well,  sirrah,  and  is't  not  the  shortest  way?" 

"I'gad,  the  longest  way  round  is  here  the  shortest 
way  home.  It's  tempting  Providence  to  venture 
near  Oxford." 

"The  Lord,  sir,  will  take  care  of  His  own." 


AT    WITNEY    TOWN  249 

"That  is  why  I  tremble  for  us.  Nay,  sir,  if  you 
would  not  lose  all,  go  round  by  Newbridge  as  we 
came." 

Colonel  Budd  was  plainly  amused.  "Verily,  thou 
art  matter  of  mirth  with  thy  host  of  fears.  What 
have  we  to  dread  from  Oxford?  We  have  kept 
watch  all  day  and  there  is  nothing  moving  thence." 

"The  devil  himself  may  be  moving  now.  They 
expect  this  convoy  and  some  guard  must  come  for  it. 
Look  you,  sir,  if  you  do  your  duty  you  will  consult 
for  safety  and  go  round  by  Newbridge." 

"Do  you  think  to  school  me?"  cried  Colonel 
Budd.  "What!  Would  you  be  my  master?  Be  as- 
sured, sir,  I  am  set  in  authority  and  thou  shalt  not 
minish  it." 

Colonel  Royston  shrugged.  "Go  to  the  devil  your 
own  way.  Remember,  I  told  you  where  you  were 
going." 

Colonel  Budd  preached  him  a  sermon  concerning 
original  sin  and  the  effectual  calling  of  the  elect. 


CHAPTER  TWENT\^NINE 

AT  BABLOCKHITHE 

OOMETHING  belongs  to  Master  Thomas  White, 
^^  rector  of  Witney,  though  while  he  lived  the 
good  man  was  careful  not  to  claim  it.  He  was  the 
friend  of  all  men,  even  Anabaptists,  but  would 
rather  not  have  been.  His  private  affections  bound 
him  to  church  and  King,  but  he  concealed  them 
carefully  and  lived  and  died  in  prosperity.  None 
the  less,  he  did  his  affections  a  good  turn  when  he 
safely  could  and  his  chance  came  on  this  evening  of 
spring.  It  was  the  rector's  custom  to  get  an  appetite 
for  supper  by  a  walk  from  the  rectory  past  the  But- 
ter Cross  to  the  bridge,  whereby  he  saw  how  the 
bulk  of  his  parish  was  behaving  and  could  also  gos- 
sip with  it. 

On  this  night  he  was  with  Master  Goundrey,  a 
cloth  worker,  debating  the  effect  of  the  war  on  the 
price  of  wool,  when  they  heard  the  rumble  of  the 
Puritans  and  their  convoy.  The  rector  and  Master 
Goundrey  drew  down  toward  the  bridge  with  many 
another,  expecting  to  see  the  King's  colors.  They 
were  altogether  surprised.  Puritans  from  the  west- 
ward, a  Puritan  convoy  through  Witney — the  whole 

250 


AT    BABLOCKHITHE  251 

affair  was  amazing.  They  gaped  at  the  long  caval- 
cade rolling  slowly  over  the  bridge  and  the  Puritan 
troopers  bade  them  be  gone  to  their  beds.  But  the 
rector  was  gone. 

I  conceive  him  less  benign  and  more  capable  than 
he  was  supposed.  He  made  off  to  the  rectory,  sad- 
dled his  cob  and  saying  that  he  was  away  to  visit  a 
sick  soul  at  Cogges,  was  soon  upon  the  track  of  the 
Puritans.  It  was  easy  to  catch  them,  for  the  wagons 
could  make  no  more  than  a  walk.  He  saw  them 
turn  off  by  Newland  for  Stanton  Harcourt  and  Bab- 
lockhithe,  then  followed  them  no  longer,  but  made  a 
straight  road  for  Oxford.  He  guessed  right.  There 
were  Royalists  riding  out  to  meet  that  convoy.  In 
the  middle  of  Eynsham  village,  in  the  square  by  the 
old  market-house,   he  tumbled   into  them. 

Colonel  Stow,  being  advised  that  the  convoy  was 
ordered  not  to  make  Witney  till  midnight,  had  left 
Oxford  at  sundown  and  was  well  in  advance  of  his 
time.  They  brought  him  the  rector,  panting  on  a 
blown  steed,  peering  at  him  out  of  the  dark  with 
eyes  swelling  white.  "For  the  King?"  gasped  the 
rector. 

"Without  doubt." 

"Praise  God,"  quoth  the  rector,  and  collected  his 
scattered  wits. 

"If  you  will  give  me  a  reason,"  said  Colonel 
Stow,  his  hand  on  his  moustachio,  considering  this 
strange  person. 

"Do  you  come  for  a  long  convoy  from  the  west?" 


252  COLONEL   GREATHEART 

"And  have  tnerefore  scant  time  for  you,  sir." 

"Alack,  sir,  you  are  all  out  of  time.  'Tis  taken  al- 
ready by  the  Roundheads." 

"The  devil!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  rector  heartily.  "And  they 
are  gone  with  it  to  Stanton  Harcourt  and  Bablock- 
hithe." 

Colonel  Stow  was  hard  on  his  moustachio  and 
frowning.  It  was  difficult  to  conceive  that  the 
Roundheads  had  known  so  precisely  when  to  come 
and  where.    "Who  are  you,  sir?"  he  said  sharply. 

"Sir,  I   am  the  rector  of  Witney,  who "  a 

smile  covered  his  red  face,  "who  live  at  peace  with 
all  men  and  serve  my  King  quietly,  sir,  quietly." 

Colonel  Stow  considered  him  still  some  moments. 
"You  would  advise  me  to  believe  you?" 

The  rector  laughed  out :  "Sir,  you  say  well.  You 
say  very  well.  I  am  no  honest  man.  But  when  I 
come  stealthy  believe  me.  Doubt  me  when  I  am 
open.  Believe  me  when  I  am  some  one's  enemy. 
Doubt  me  when  I  am  every  man's  friend."  But 
Colonel  Stow  had  already  made  up  his  mind  to  be- 
lieve, and  the  orders  ran  from  troop  to  troop  that 
turned  the  regiment  away  to  Bablockhithe.  They 
were  off  at  a  canter  by  a  level  bare  road. 

The  rector,  unbidden,  stayed  at  Colonel  Stow's 
side  and  Colonel  Stow,  noting  it,  had  no  more  doubt. 
But  his  mind  was  exercised  to  g^ess  how  the  Round- 
heads had  known  so  well  the  hour  to  strike.  There 
was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  make  good  speed.   He 


AT    BABLOCKHITHE  253 

cast  vedettes  far  out  in  front,  and  they  made  it, 
breaking  to  a  gallop  again  and  again,  thundering 
on  through  the  desert  dark.  Close  on  the  first  scat- 
tered houses  of  Stanton  Harcourt  he  checked  the 
pace  and  let  his  advance  guard  draw  farther  and 
farther  away  and  flung  out  a  picket  up  the  Witney 
road.  Then  since  the  Roundheads  could  not  there 
be  found  he  feared  they  were  in  advance  of  him, 
and  he  hurried  on  again  by  the  narrower,  three- 
shadowed  road  through  the  river  meadows.  His 
first  scouts  had  come  fairly  to  the  ford  when  a  man 
thundered  up  from  the  rear  to  tell  that  the  Round- 
heads were  found.  Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "Faith, 
I  am  obliged  to  these  gentlemen.  They  g^ve  me 
some  exercise  whereof  my  spirits  are  in  need.  It 
were  a  tame  march  but  for  their  kindness,"  and  he 
began  to  make  his  dispositions. 

It  was  a  heavy  night,  with  few  stars  breaking  the 
dark.  Over  the  river  and  the  dank  grass  lay  a  thin 
cloud  of  mist.  The  track  to  the  ford  was  marked  by 
trees  that  rose  to  a  vast  height  in  the  vag^e  gloom. 
Else  all  was  plain  level.  Colonel  Stow  sent  a  party 
upstream  to  the  weir.  He  held  two  squadrons  close 
by  the  ford  and  set  the  rest  a  furlong  back.  Then 
they  waited,  shrouded  in  the  mist,  hearing  nothing 
but  the  roar  of  the  weir. 

In  a  while  came  the  convoy,  most  orderly.  Half 
Colonel  Budd's  regiment  marched  in  the  van,  half 
kept  the  rear.  It  was  the  orthodox  array  and 
Colonel  Stow,  with  his  experienced  ear  cocked  for 


254  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

the  sound  of  their  march,  had  not  need  to  peer  at 
them  to  know  they  used  it.  He  had  no  more  anxie- 
ties. He  could  trust  his  regiment  to  wait.  The  good 
Puritans  came  on  innocently.  The  squadrons  in 
front  took  the  ford  and  were  well  in,  the  first  files 
almost  upon  the  farther  bank,  when  Colonel  Stow 
fired  a  pistol.  His  regiment  waked  with  a  roar. 
Two  squadrons  drove  at  the  ford  and  cut  off  the 
troopers  crossing  from  the  convoy.  The  rest  were 
hurled  at  the  rear  guard  and,  crashing  at  speed  on 
the  flank  of  men  unaware,  overthrew  them  utterly 
and  rode  them  down  and  slew.  The  night  was 
aflame  and  loud  with  pistol  shots,  but  it  was  scarce 
a  fight,  for  the  Puritans  were  shattered  beyond  hope 
in  the  first  sudden  onset.  The  most  of  them  were 
out  of  their  saddles  at  the  shock  and  never  mounted 
again.  Only  the  first  squadrons,  uncharged,  un- 
broken, turned  in  the  ford  and  set  themselves  stub- 
bornly to  recover  the  fight,  but  while  they  bore  on 
gallantly  against  the  beating  storm  of  shot  that  only 
their  first  files  could  answer,  sudden  there  was  a 
shout  from  the  weir  and  the  water  grew  swift  about 
them  and  the  horses  lost  footing  and  were  borne 
away. 

There  was  no  more  hope  for  them.  Colonel  Stow 
kept  one  squadron  on  the  river  bank  some  while,  but 
it  had  no  more  to  do  than  capture  a  few  damp  Puri- 
tans that  struggled  to  shore  mighty  miserable.  Each 
man  of  Colonel  Stow's  had  his  work  and  set  about  it. 
The  first  of  the  fight  was  hardly  over  before  the 


AT    BABLOCKHITHE  255 

weary  wagon  teams  were  strengthened  with  cap- 
tured chargers  and  the  convoy,  wheeling  into  the 
meadows  for  room,  was  turned  about  and  driven  on 
to  Eynsham  and  Oxford.  Colonel  Stow's  men 
might  have  no  faith,  but  they  had  learned  their 
trade. 

The  rector  of  Witney  had  stayed  close  by  Colonel 
Stow  and  emitted  some  uncanonical  chuckles  during 
the  fight  "That's  a  Roland  for  old  Noll.  He  that 
roUeth  a  stone,  it  shall  return  upon  him,"  said  he. 
"Good  night  to  you." 

"Nay,  faith,  sir;  ride  back  to  Oxford  and  let  us 
thank  you." 

"Who,  I?"  The  rector  tapped  his  nose. 
"Look  'e,  I  have  to  my  parish  a  score  of  wild  Ana- 
baptists and  a  fair  regiment  of  whoreson  independ- 
ents who  are  my  sweet  friends,  and,  by  your  leave, 
their  friend  I'll  stay.  For  times  go  hard.  Forget 
you  have  seen  me.  Disremember  my  name.  The 
blood  of  the  martyrs  is  the  seed  of  the  church,  and 
I'll  sow  none  if  I  can  help  it.  There  are  too  many." 
He  vanished  into  the  night  and  died  in  the  odor  of 
sanctity  and  his  rectory  ten  years  after. 

Colonel  Budd,  swept  away  by  the  rush  of  the 
deepening  water,  reached  the  farther  bank  a  hun- 
dred yards  down  stream.  Riding  back  hastily,  he 
peered  across  the  fo,aming  water  and  saw  by  the 
light  of  the  pistol  flashes  that  his  regiment  was  all 
undone.  There  was  nothing  left  but  those  strug- 
gling desperately  with  the  wild  stream  and  the  Roy- 


256  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

alist  fire,  and  for  them  little  hope.  Colonel  Budd 
yelled  wildly  for  a  trumpeter  and  when  one  came  at 
last  bade  him  sound  the  rally.  The  troopers  heard 
and  made  for  safety  as  they  could.  But  it  was  no 
more  than  a  squadron  of  horses  and  men  worn  to 
utter  weariness  that  mustered  beyond  the  ford. 

Colonel  Budd  found  himself  looking  into  Colonel 
Royston's  face.  He  drew  his  breath  heavily  like  a 
man  awaiting  a  blow.  But  Colonel  Royston  said 
nothing.  He  had  no  reproaches  for  another.  He 
had  heard  the  orders  that  conquered  him  ring  in  the 
voice  of  his  friend. 

Colonel  Budd  dug  his  nails  into  his  flesh.  "Icha- 
bod !"  he  groaned.    "Ichabod !" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY 

COLONEL  STOW  RESOLVES  TO  LAUGH 

T  T  WAS  close  upon  dawn  when  Colonel  Stow  went 
-*-  back  to  his  quarters  in  the  Corn  Market  and  slept 
doughtily.  He  woke  in  the  afternoon  with  Prince 
Rupert  over  his  bed  and  a  hearty,  "Good  fortune, 
good  fellow !"  buzzing  in  his  ears.  He  blinked  ami- 
ably. "So  you  gave  Noll  a  poke  in  the  short  ribs?" 
quoth  the  Palatine. 

"Faith,  he'll  want  a  plaster  this  morning,  sir," 
says  Colonel  Stow,  sitting  up. 

"I'll  swear  it's  as  pretty  a  thing  as  I  have  known," 
cried  the  Palatine  and  howled  for  a  quart  of  Rhen- 
ish. Colonel  Stow  saluted  from  the  bedclothes.  "A 
sweet  ambush,  faith.  And  your  weir  is  pure  poet- 
ical." The  wine  came  and  Rupert  with  a  thunder- 
ous "Prosit!"  drank  mightily  and  gave  the  tankard 
to  Colonel  Stow.  "Yes,  i'gad,  a  sweet  affair.  The 
King  shall  remember  you  for  it.  But  look  'e,  Jerry, 
what  a  pox  were  the  Roundheads  doing  there  at  all? 
They  would  not  risk  so  far  afield  on  a  chance.  They 
had  an  information  and  exact  to  the  hour.  What  do 
you  make  of  it?" 

257 


258  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Colonel  Stow  caressed  his  beard  and  gathered  his 
half-waked  wits.  There  was  but  one  of  whom 
talk  of  treason  could  make  him  think.  The  memory 
of  Lucinda  surged  back  on  him.  He  reached  hastily 
for  the  tankard  to  hide  his  face  and  drank.  .  .  . 
No,  that  at  least  was  impossible.  She  might  come  to 
him  and  counsel  it,  but  she  herself  could  scarce  go 
to  Cromwell.  ,  .  .  He  put  the  tankard  down 
and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"What  are  you  thinking?"  said  the  Palatine,  look- 
ing at  him  curiously. 

"I  am  thinking,  sir  .  .  ,  that  the  whole  af- 
fair is  vastly  strange.  .  .  .If  the  Round- 
heads had  gone  round  by  Newbridge  as  a  fool  might 
have  taught  them,  we  had  been  kissing  our  hands  to 
that  convoy." 

Rupert  went  off  on  the  new  hare.  He  drew  a 
map  on  the  sheet  and  made  Colonel  Stow  draw  an- 
other. "Ods  blood,  'tis  so,"  he  cried.  "The  whole 
is  a  mad  business  indeed.  What  do  you  make  of  it?" 

Colonel  Stow  shrugged.  "Luck,  sir.  God  help 
us  all  when  there  is  no  luck  in  war.  By  Your  High- 
ness' leave,  I  will  up." 

Rupert  sat  down  on  the  bed  as  Colonel  Stow  got 
out  of  it  and  kept  up  a  steady  stream  of  debate  and 
praise,  which  Colonel  Stow  answered  fitfully.  His 
mind  was  away.  Now  the  stir  of  action  was  past, 
despair  called  him  again  and  fear.  And  Rupert 
was  talking  of  him  as  of  Gustav  Adolf  or  Henri  IV. 

His  strength  was  gone.     He  had  staked  his  life 


COLONEL  STOW  RESOLVES  TO  LAUGH  259 

on  a  cheat.  Dreams  were  liars  and  hope  and  faith. 
He  felt  himself  alone  and  all  things  mocked  at  him. 
The  morrow  had  nothing  to  bring  him  more.  He 
had  lost  what  made  his  life.  There  was  no  more 
desire  of  deeds,  no  passion  to  use  his  strength. ,  He 
was  listless  of  doing.  Nay,  true  life  was  done.  He 
could  be  sure  of  himself  no  more.  Since  he  was  a 
fool  for  his  faith  in  her,  he  was  a  fool  to  believe  in 
himself.  He  had  failed  his  own  great  need,  to  win 
her  and  keep  her  true.  If  in  that,  why,  then  in  all. 
He  was  but  a  weakling,  who  cheated  himself  with 
vanity — that  most  contemptible  man  of  men. 

Now,  with  no  work  to  hold  his  thought,  no  chance 
of  war  to  quicken  his  blood,  now  first  he  felt  the 
pain  of  his  wound.  The  desire  of  all  his  manhood 
was  widowed,  the  glad  vision  that  had  given  him 
heart  in  the  worst  hours  was  changed  to  an  ugly 
sprite  of  mockery;  the  happiness  for  which  each 
power  of  him  had  striven  desperately  was  torn  away 
from  his  world.  The  very  surging  life  of  him  made 
the  pain  throb  keenly.  He  was  too  much  a  man  not 
to  suffer  deep. 

Now,  Matthieu-Marc-Luc  was  in  some  small  ela- 
tion. He  had  even  expended  his  substance  on  a 
quart  of  Burgundy,  a  rare  generosity  which  Alci- 
biade  honored  duly.  ''Dame,"  quoth  Matthieu- 
Marc,  "my  soul  pastures  upon  joy  to-day." 

"May  it  chew  a  glad  cud  to-night,"  says  Alci- 
biade. 


26o  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"This  is  the  first  savory  fight  I  have  tasted  in 
England," 

"Well  enough,"  says  Alcibiade,  with  his  nose  in 
the  tankard,  "like  a  toasted  herring — no  more  than 
a  shoeing  horn  to  your  dinner." 

"Remark  me !  I  do  not  esteem  your  fight  by  the 
size  of  it.  'Tis  art,  the  pure  art,  that  I  love.  Now, 
in  this  affair  of  the  ford  I  appraise  M.  le  Colonel 
as  perfect." 

Alcibiade  shrugged.  "Give  me  the  grand  style," 
says  he.  "Pound  me  an  army  and  I  do  not  mind 
the  trouble.  These  little  affairs  are  art  for  my  lady's 
maid." 

"You  are  gross,  my  friend.  You  are  deaf  to  the 
finer  melodies.  But  with  me  these  neat  actions  ex- 
pand my  soul.  I  am  all  spiritual  to-day,"  sighed 
Matthieu-Marc. 

"Are  you?  Then  come  and  see  Molly,"  said  Alci- 
biade, who  had  finished  the  wine. 

"Hum!  I  do  not  think  I  can  love  her,  your 
Molly." 

"But  she  adores  you." 

Matthieu-Marc-Luc  curled  his  moustachios.  "In 
effect,  that  is  a  reason  for  staying  away.  I  would 
not  break  the  woman's  heart," 

"So.  I  believe  she  was  right,"  said  Alcibiade  to 
himself. 

"O  no,  she  was  not,"  said  Matthieu-Marc.  "What 
did  she  say?" 

"That  you  were  too  shy  for  her  eating,  a  sad, 


COLONEL  STOW  RESOLVES  TO  LAUGH  261 

sober  soldier.  Then  she  sighed  and  said  'twas  pity, 
for  you  were  a  proper  man." 

Matthieu-Marc  curled  his  moustachios  more  ve- 
hemently. "She  has  a  discernment,"  said  he.  "And 
yet  she  hath  none.  Well,  I  will  see  her.  .  .  . 
Hem !    Are  you  coming?" 

"Corbleu!  you  might  like  to  take  her  alone,"  said 
Alcibiade. 

"Come  with  me,  my  good  friend,  you  will  amuse 
her." 

Alcibiade  chuckled. 

So  they  crossed  the  Corn  Market  and  made  for 
Ship  Street.  Molly  stood  behind  her  tiny  counter  as 
wholesomely  pleasant  as  her  own  cakes.  Alcibiade 
looked  expectant  at  Matthieu-Marc  and  nudged 
him.  Matthieu-Marc  shuffled  his  feet  and  said, 
"Hem!"  and  looked  angular. 

"The  kind  gentleman  has  come  to  eat  you,  Molly," 
said  Alcibiade. 

"A  cake  would  agree  with  him  better,"  quoth 
Molly. 

"My  pretty,"  said  Matthieu-Marc,  with  a  fine 
bow,  "your  cheeks  are  rosy  as  a  summer  sunset." 

Alcibiade  supplied  a  liquid  whistle. 

"Shall  I  bring  you  fine  weather,  kind  sir?"  said 
Molly  sweetly,  leaning  over  to  Matthieu-Marc  with 
a  smile  of  provocation. 

"There  may  be  storms,  my  dear,  there  might  be 
storms,"  quoth  Matthieu-Marc  in  a  hurry. 

Molly  made  the  face  of  one  about  to  weep.     "Do 


262  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

you  think  he  really  loves  me?"  said  she  in  a  loud 
whisper  to  Alcibiade. 

"I  have  certainly  never  said  so,"  Matthieu-Marc 
protested. 

Alcibiade  shook  his  head  at  him.  "O  wicked 
one!    O  breaker  of  hearts!" 

"I  have  hurt  no  heart  in  my  life,"  quoth  Mat- 
thieu-Marc indignant,  "save  some  for  roasting." 

"O,  you  are  a  bloody  man  indeed,"  cried  Molly. 
"And  would  you  have  my  poor  heart  stuffed  with 
nasty  onions?" 

Matthieu-Marc  put  out  his  chest.  "It  is  a  vile 
taste,"  quoth  he.  "I  advise  a  forcemeat  of  egg  and 
marjoram.  Nay,  my  dear,  save  for  my  profession 
I  am  the  gentlest  man  alive." 

"Gentle,  quotha!  And  how  many  widows  did  you 
make  last  night?" 

"My  dear,"  said  Matthieu-Marc,  "'tis  every  good 
man's  duty  to  make  widows.  Thus  freeing  poor 
husbands  from  purgatory.  For  myself,  well,  there 
were  some  half-dozen  went  down  before  me  last 
night.     I  was  in  the  humor." 

Molly  made  eyes  at  him.  "La,  you  turn  me  cold 
down  my  back  and  I  love  you  terrible." 

Matthieu-Marc  recoiled.  "This  is  unseemly," 
said  he. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  tell  'e  so?"  says  the  artless 
Molly.    "You  ha'  just  swore  you  loved  me." 

"Never  o*  my  life!"  cried  Matthieu-M,arc  in 
alarm. 


COLONEL  STOW  RESOLVES  TO  LAUGH  263 

She  appealed  with  pathos  to  Alcibiade.  "Did  'e 
not,  now?    You  heard  him." 

"With  both  my  ears,"  said  Alcibiade  readily. 
Then  to  Matthieu-Marc,  "O,  wickedness,  old  wick- 
edness, go  to !" 

"You  see!"  cried  Molly  with  reproach;  then  with 
sobs,  "And  you  are  all  unkind  indeed!" 

Matthieu-Marc  made  the  world  a  gesture  of  de- 
spair. "So  be  it!  So  be  it!"  he  cried.  "You  love 
me.  I  love  you.  And  it  shall  be  very  uncomforta- 
ble for  both  of  us." 

Molly  took  her  red  face  out  of  her  hands.  She 
presented  to  Matthieu-Marc  with  determination  one 
cheek,  and  as  he  came  to  it  more  delicately  than 
Agag,  held  out  her  hand  to  Alcibiade  for  the 
wagered  shilling. 

"Matthieu-Marc,  my  dear,  you  will  have  a  saving 
wife,"  said  Alcibiade. 

Matthieu-Marc  started  back  from  the  rosy  cheek 
vehemently  and  gazed  with  awe  at  Alcibiade,  who 
laughed  in  no  manner  of  encouragement. 

"How  you  do  waste  my  time,"  quoth  Molly.  "As 
if  I  wanted  either  of  you." 

"My  pretty,"  cried  Matthieu-Marc,  "you  relieve 
my  soul." 

"I  never  touched  it,"  said  Molly  with  some  in- 
dignation. She  considered  them  severely.  "Lud, 
there's  one  I  care  for  more  than  the  both  of  you." 

Alcibiade  leaned  over  the  counter  and  pressed  her 
waist.     "What !     Faithless  so  soon !" 


264  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

''Have  done!    How  is  your  Colonel?" 

"M.  le  Colonel  is  as  well  as  a  man  can  be  without 
courting  you,  my  pretty,"  said  Matthieu-Marc. 

But  Alcibiade  had  grown  grave.  "Why  do  you 
ask,  Molly?" 

She  made  a  queer  answer.  "Because  he  is  a  man 
that  makes  you  feel  safe  being  a  woman.  I  could 
do  things  for  him.  And  he  would  not  want  me." 
Her  rosy,  round  face  fell  sad  with  a.  quaint  look  of 
childhood.  "You  know  the  big  man,  his  friend,  and 
her  that  I  call  the  hungry  one?  I  think  they  are 
gone  away  together." 

After  a  moment  of  silence  Matthieu-Marc  struck 
his  brow  dramatically.  "False  Lancelot!  False 
Guinevere!"  he  cried. 

But  Alcibiade  said  in  a  low  voice,  "Are  you  sure, 
Molly?" 

"It  was  in  the  dark  of  the  night  before  you 
marched  out  He  went  off  up  the  street  with  a  spare 
horse  and  after  I  saw  him  riding  with  her  down  the 
Broad  Street.  They  are  gone  together. 
O,  I  could  have  a  laugh.  They'll  give  each  other 
cobbler's  wages.      .      .      .      But,   does  he  know?" 

"Are  you  sure,  Molly?"  said  Alcibiade  again. 

"I  could  slap  your  fat  face,"  cried  Molly  with 
sudden  ferocity,  and  turned  her  back  on  him. 

Alcibiade  went  out. 

Matthieu-Marc  cleared  his  throat  and  shook  his 
head.  "It  is  the  nature  of  your  sex,  child,  to  be 
light,  child,  to  be  frail,  to  be  false.    You  were  made 


COLONEL  STOW  RESOLVES  TO  LAUGH  265 

for  the  shame  of  men.  But  man  is  greater  than 
shame,  and  his  soul  is  glorified  in  the  shame  of  your 
treason — 

"  ^Souvent  femme  varie, 
Bien  fol  qui  s'y  fie.' 

The  lusty  King  Francois — " 

"Was  a  fool  like  yourself,"  Molly  snapped. 

Matthieu-Marc  struck  an  attitude  and  set  himself 
to  stare  her  down.     He  retired  in  no  good  order. 

"Go  your  ways,  go  your  ways,"  said  Molly. 
"You'll  never  know  anything,  you  men.  You  are 
too  clever."  Thereafter  she  wept,  which  was  cer- 
tainly not  clever.  For  whom  or  for  what  she  had 
found  it  hard  to  say. 

Alcibiade  made  his  solemn  way  first  to  Royston's 
lodging,  then  to  Lucinda's  and  heard  the  truth 
again.  Then — to  see  him  would  doubtless  have  in- 
creased the  wrath  of  Molly — he  took  counsel  with  a 
pipe.     And  that  sent  him  to  Colonel  Stow. 

Colonel  Stow  was  alone  still.  He  met  Alcibiade 
with  tired  eyes.  "You  may  call  it  ill  news,  sir,"  said 
Alcibiade,  saluting. 

"Well?" 

"On  the  night  before  we  marched  Colonel  Roy- 
ston  left  Oxford  with  Mademoiselle  Weston." 

Colonel  Stow  hesitated  a  moment  and  then 
laughed.    "Who  dares  say  that?" 

"There  is  no  doubt,  sir." 


266  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"It — It  is  not  true,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  and  Alci- 
biade  saw  his  lips  tremble  and  his  hand.  Indeed,  it 
was  all  too  bitterly  clear.  He  could  not  fight  against 
it.  The  riddle  was  answered.  There  could  be  no 
more  doubt.  The  treason  came  from  his  friend  and 
his  love.  She  was  the  mind,  Royston  the  arm  that 
struck  at  his  honor.  "It  is  not  true,"  said  Colonel 
Stow. 

Alcibiade  saluted.  "It  is  whatever  you  please, 
sir." 

Colonel  Stow  turned  away,  in  a  listless  gesture 
bade  Alcibiade  go,  and  rested  his  head  on  his  hand. 
Alcibiade  walked  to  the  window  and  stayed 
there. 

Colonel  Stow  leaned  over  the  table,  feeble  and 
cold.  It  seemed  that  his  heart  was  dead,  his  life 
gone  out  of  him.  This  was  the  end.  She  had 
robbed  him  of  all — hope  .and  faith  and  love  and 
strength.  Even  his  friend  .  .  .  even  his 
friend  .  .  .  He  began  to  cry  like  a  child  and 
with  the  tears  his  stunned  mind  woke  to  feel  again. 
Then  he  drove  his  teeth  into  his  lip  and  twisted 
wrist  against  wrist  to  get  an  easier  pain.  To  make 
his  friend  play  traitor  against  him  and  seek  his  ruin, 
to  steal  his  friend's  heart  away,  sure  this  was  a 
devil's  work,  no  woman's.  She  had  no  part  in  life 
but  to  make  men  base.  And  he  had  set  his  life 
upon  her.  Had  loved?  Was  it  all  past?  Nay,  the 
worst  shame  was  that  still  he  had  a  vile  yearning  for 
her.     That — ^that  must  go  at  least.      He  could  not 


COLONEL  STOW  RESOLVES  TO  LAUGH  267 

dare  even  the   release  of   death   if  he  loved   her 
still. .      .      . 

There  in  the  falling  twilight,  huddled  together, 
quivering,  a  desperate  thing,  afraid  of  his  own  fate, 
he  drove  her  out  of  his  heart  for  ever.  Whatever 
might  lie  beyond,  whatever  strange  meetings  there, 
at  least  he  would  have  no  need  of  her.  His  soul 
should  loathe  her  as  now  his  body  shuddered  at  the 
memory  of  her  kiss.  She  should  be  nothing  through 
all  eternity,  if  there  was  an  eternity  to  endure.  So 
then.  Death  had  no  fear.  Death  could  be  no  worse 
than  the  traitorous  world.  Death  would  spare  him 
something  at  least — the  scorn  and  the  sneers,  the 
long  misery  of  effort  when  a  man  was  sure  to  fail. 
Death. 

He  sat  up  and  brushed  his  hand  over  his  wet  eyes. 
There  in  the  gloom,  stiff-backed,  staring  out,  stood 
Alcibiade,  like  a  sentinel  over  the  dying  day.  The 
hard,  soldierly  strength,  quiet  and  still,  appealed  to 
him  strangely.  He  was  like  a  man  buffeted  and 
weary  in  the  battle  of  a  breaking  sea,  to  whose 
smarting  eyes  comes  through  the  spindrift  and 
the  spray  a  glimpse  of  dark  land  beyond  the  raven- 
ing line  of  foam.  .  .  .  Well.  The  whole  world 
had  not  passed  away  because  he  was  in  trouble. 

Something  stood  real  beyond  his  passion  and 
his  pain.  .  .  .  Why,  perhaps  he  was  drunk  with 
self;  perhaps  his  mind  sought  mad  fancies  of  tor- 
ture, fed  upon  its  own  ill  dream.  Ay,  faith,  his 
very  woes  might  be  unreal,  a  nightmare  for  him 


268  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

alone.  He  felt  himself  half  sunk  in  a  realm  of 
ghastly  fantasy,  half  away  in  the  real  world  of  ac- 
tion. .  .  .  And  still  pain  stung  at  him  and 
shame  and  though  it  were  all  phantasm  and 
cheat,  his  soul  was  chained  in  it.  He  felt. 
He  suffered.  The  strength  of  others  had  no  help 
for  him.  He  was  at  war  with  the  false  spirit  of  life. 
He  had  no  part  in  the  peace  that  brought  the  world 
content.  Against  that  he  was  rebel.  .  .  . 
And  yet  was  it  not  a  coward,  a  weakling, 
that  could  be  hurt  so  much?  O,  a  man  need  not  be 
ashamed  to  feel.  Where  there  was  life  there  was 
pain.  It  was  a  sluggish  soul  who  had  not  learned 
that  But  to  fall  out  of  the  fight  for  a  wound;  to 
capitulate  to  pain ;  to  g^ve  the  strength  of  body  and 
soul  to  a  debauch  of  suffering ;  that  was  not  worthy 
of  a  man.  Your  true  man  would  yield  no  more  to 
sorrow  than  he  must.  He  should  tiglit  out  of  it.  At 
the  most,  at  the  worst,  pain  and  shame  were  fetters 
that  bound.  A  man  must  break  them  and  be  the 
stronger  for  the  combat.  That  should  be  true  sight 
which  showed  him  agony  as  a  nightmare,  as  an  evil 
dream  and  the  world  of  endless  effort  clean  and 
real.  Suffering  was  one  of  the  cheating  shadows  of 
life,  sent  to  blind  and  daze  and  bewilder  that  a  man 
might  learn  to  trust  himself  and  be  strong.  He 
must  fight  out  of  it.  .  .  .  Ay,  if  all  else  failed, 
he  was  left  with  the  strength  of  his  own  soul. 
It  was  enough,  though  the  spirit  of  the  world's 
chance    and    change    were    false.    He  made    head 


COLONEL  STOW  RESOLVES  TO  LAUGH  269 

against  all.  He  stood  strong  in  the  darkness. 
He  w.as  sure.  .  .  .  The  first  fierce  pang 
might  come  again  and  after  the  dull  ache 
of  despair.  He  could  not  vaunt  himself  safe. 
With  no  hope,  no  honor  but  his  own  to  fight  for, 
there  was  little  joy  to  win.  Surely  in  the  empty 
hours  despair  would  beset  him  again.  He  had  not 
conquered  yet.  It  was  idle  to  boast  to  himself.  All 
life  might  be  the  prey  of  sorrow  and  death  bring 
joy.  .  .  .  Well,  The  better  reason  to  fight.  To 
defy  despair  were  the  happier  way.  To  yield  were 
to  multiply  misery,  to  despise  himself.  Nay,  he  must 
hold  right  on  with  eyes  wide,  with  head  erect.     .     . 

It  was  folly,  it  was  weakness,  to  wail  at  life.  So 
a  man  confessed  himself  beaten,  so  he  made  defeat 
harder.  In  the  last,  worst  hours  a  man  should  laugh. 
The  right,  unanswerable  answer  to  the  blackest  ma- 
lice of  fate  was  a  jest.  He  was  greater  than  all  trag- 
edy who  dared  mock  at  his  own.  Strength  and  the 
quiet  mind  were  linked  with  gaiety.  Not  without 
that  could  a  man  know  himself.  .  .  .  There 
was,  in  fact,  some  humor  in  this  desperate  attempt  to 
be  humorous.     He  heard  himself  laugh  out. 

Alcibiade  turned  and  saluted  across  the  dark. 

Colonel  Stow  rose  up  and  came  close  to  him.  "Al- 
cibiade," said  he,  "I  never  interested  myself  so 
much.  And  I  was  never  less  interesting.  Resolve 
that," 

"Sir,"  said  Alcibiade,  "a  man  should  only  think 
of  himself  while  he  has  no  need." 


270  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"That  is  not  an  answer,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"No,  sir.  It  is  an  impertinence.  Nothing  is  so 
pertinent  as  an  impertinence.    That  is  life." 

"You  are  wise  to-night,  Alcibiade." 

Alcibiade  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  "Because  I 
ought  to  be  foolish.    That  is  my  miserable  nature." 

"I  like  your  nature." 

"Sir,  I  deplore  your  taste." 

"I  am  going  to  borrow  it" 

"Sir,  you  will  be  foolish  when  you  should  be 
wise." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

And  as  he  spoke  the  trumpets  sounded  for  the 
night  guard. 


T 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE 

THE  COMMISSARY  GENERAL  IS   DISAPPOINTED 

HAT     morning     a     little     before     dawn     a 


-■-  wretched,  silent  company  had  ridden  into 
Abingdon.  When  they  turned  to  the  market-place 
Colonel  Budd  spoke  for  the  first  time,  save  for  sav- 
ory quotations  from  the  Scripture,  "I  go  straight- 
way to  the  lieutenant  general,  sir.     I  bid  you  come." 

Colonel  Royston  grunted.  "Bad  will  be  no  worse 
for  sleeping  on  it,"  said  he.  He  was  worn  out  and 
dully  puzzled  at  himself,  for  his  great  body  hardly 
knew  weariness. 

Together  they  came  to  the  lieutenant  general's 
quarters.  They  were  both  ill  enough  to  see,  as  they 
waited  in  the  ghastly  mingled  light  of  candles  and 
the  first  pale  dawn.  The  lieutenant  general  him- 
self, uncombed,  unshaven,  with  his  linen  awry,  was 
not  more  comely.  But  the  commissary  came  neat 
as  ever. 

"Well,  friend,  well?  Have  you  not  sped?"  quoth 
Cromwell. 

Colonel  Budd  groaned  aloud.  "Israel  is  fled  be- 
fore the  Philistines  and  there  hath  been  also  a  great 
slaughter  among  the  people,"  said  Colonel  Budd. 

271 


372  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Why,  how  now !"  cried  Cromwell,  frowning.  The 
commissary  turned  not  without  satisfaction  upon 
Colonel  Royston. 

"  'Let  thine  hand,  I  pray  thee,  be  against  me,'  " 
said  Colonel  Budd.  "For  this  man  hath  done  no 
wrong.  Nay,  verily,  his  counsel  was  as  if  a  man 
had  enquired  of  the  oracle  of  God.  The  which,  if  I 
had  used,  the  children  of  God  were  not  put  to  con- 
fusion. I  have  sinned  greatly.  Yea,  I  have  done 
very  foolishly." 

Cromwell  banged  his  hand  down  on  the  table. 
"Make  short,  man,  make  short" 

Colonel  Budd  muttered  some  solace  of  Scripture 
and  began :  "You  are  to  know  that  all  the  day  went 
prosperously.  We  came  with  no  man  against  us 
safely  upon  the  road  to  the  west  and  even  as  this 
savory  member  did  prophesy  unto  us,  the  convoy  of 
the  men  of  Belial  came ;  yea,  and  by  his  devices  we 
had  the  advantage  of  it  and  did  possess  it  alto- 
gether. Then  he  bade  us  gird  up  our  loins  and  be 
gone,  but  I  tarried  a  while  to  do  execution  on  the 
Amalekites.  In  the  which  I  can  not  blame  myself, 
though  the  Lord,  Whose  ways  are  a  mystery,  re- 
quited me  ill." 

"What,  sirrah?"  Cromwell  thundered.  "Would 
you  judge  your  God?" 

"My  damnation  is  unto  His  glory,"  quoth  Colonel 
Budd,  "yet  may  I  call  it  damnation.  Well,  sir,  it 
was  full  dark  before  we  marched  and  I  proposed  to 
myself  the  nearest  road  by  the  ford  of  Bablock- 


THE    COMMISSARY    GENERAL      273 

hithe.  Then  this  good  brother  in  the  Lord  con- 
tended with  me,  yea,  strove  hard  with  me,  that  we 
should  go  round  by  the  way  we  came,  afar  from  the 
city  of  the  Philistines.  But  I  would  not  hear  him. 
Verily,  one  sinner  destroyeth  much  good,  and  the 
labor  of  the  fool  weareth  every  one  away.  So  I 
would  not  harken  unto  him,  but  went  by  the  broad 
road  which  leadeth  unto  destruction.  And,  behold, 
even  at  the  ford,  while  the  half  the  regiment  was 
cumbered  in  the  river,  the  Philistines  fell  upon  us 
and  they  did  undo  us  utterly.  Whereby  I  bring  you 
back  no  convoy  and  of  my  regiment  one  broken 
squadron.  For  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  is  kindled 
against  me  and  my  name  shall  be  a  hissing." 

"And  through  thee  the  heathen  have  come  into 
their  inheritance,"  said  Cromwell.  "Truly  an 
haughty  spirit  is  an  abomination  unto  the  Lord." 

"Sir,  I  am  humbled,  even  unto  the  dust.  I  be- 
seech you  show  me  no  mercy.  For  truly  the  Lord  is 
a  jealous  God." 

Cromwell  beat  his  fingers  on  the  table.  The  com- 
missary was  attentive  to  Colonel  Royston,  whose  de- 
jection interested  him:  "You,  sir,  have  you  any- 
thing to  say?" 

"It  is  not  my  humor  to  accuse  a  comrade," 
growled  Royston.  "The  gentleman  is  a  brave  gen- 
tleman." 

The  commissary  looked  disappointed.  "You  do 
^ot  accuse  him  neither?" 

"I  have  answered  you,"  growled  Royston. 


274  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"You  say  well,  friend,"  quoth  Cromwell.  "Ay, 
and  you  have  done  well.  Your  promise  hath  been 
fairly  performed.  You  are  in  my  remembrance.  O, 
sir,  let's  not  be  weary  in  well  doing.  Colonel  Budd, 
the  cause  of  the  Lord  hath  suffered  by  you.  You'll 
face  a  court." 

"Sir,  I  thank  you,"  cried  Colonel  Budd.  Royston 
saluted  without  a  word,  and  they  went  their  way. 

"The  Lord  deliver  us  from  fools,  Henry  Ireton," 
said  Cromwell. 

"That  will  He  not  in  this  world,  sir." 

"Nay,  verily.  And  this  Jacob  is  an  ass  absolute. 
Heard  you  ever  such  a  chronicle  of  folly?  Well. 
The  other  is  a  right  honest,  true,  sturdy  fellow. 
Would  I  had  given  him  command !" 

"I  am  disappointed,"  said  the  commissary  gen- 
eral. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO 

LUCINDA  IS  WOOED 

LUCINDA  endured  an  impatient  ennui.  Of  no 
account,  friendless  in  a  town  of  Puritan  sol- 
diers, she  found  each  hour  a  week.  Withal  she 
panted  to  hear  of  Royston's  fortune.  I  suppose 
there  was  always  in  her  heart  a  love  for  Colonel 
Stow,  and  that  very  love  made  her  yearn  for  tidings 
of  his  defeat,  ay,  of  his  death,  li  she  had  cared 
nothing,  she  could  have  let  him  go  without  one  touch 
of  pain.  But  he  had  sown  in  her  a  strange  yearn- 
ing that  would  not  die.  Still  she  desired  him,  and 
it  was  more  than  desire.  There  was  that  in  her  soul 
which  he  had  waked  to  life  and  without  him  it  was 
hungry.  She  might  have  laughed,  I  think,  at  his 
scorn,  if  scorn  had  been  all  his  offense.  But  that  he 
should  dare  to  make  her  need  him  and  deny  her  was 
a  wrong  that  rankled  and  made  and  fed  on  paiil. 
Through  each  weary  hour  she  was  the  more  en- 
raged. 

It  was  with  no  good  heart  that  Colonel  Roystoh 
came  to  her  at  last.  She  started  from  her  chaif". 
"What  fortune?"  she  cried  eagerly.  "What  for- 
tune?" 

275 


276  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"None." 

"How?"  Her  face  was  dark  and  distorted.  "You 
failed?    You've  let  him  laugh?" 

"Him?"  Royston  cried  and  snatched  her  wrist. 
"How  much  did  you  know?" 

"Ah!  You  are  hurting  me,"  she  screamed  like  a 
child,  for  his  hand  had  closed  in  merciless  force,  and 
struggled  to  escape. 

"What  do  I  care?  .  .  .  You  devil,  you  knew 
it!"  He  wrenched  her  wrist  round  in  his  passion, 
then  flung  her  from  him  so  that  she  reeled  against 
the  wall. 

She  was  white  with  pain.  "You  are  m.ad,  I 
think,"  she  said,  hardly  commanding  her  voice. 
"What  is  it  I  know?" 

"You  knew  that  Jerry  Stow  was  coming  out  for 
the  convoy.  You  knew  it  was  his  affair.  You  sent 
me  to  trap  him  and  ruin  him,  you  damned 
traitress !" 

"O,  la,  you  have  lost  your  wits,"  she  laughed.  "Of 
course  I  knew  it  was  his.  Why  else  should  I  care 
to  destroy  it?  Sure,  you  must  have  guessed  so  much. 
There  is  no  treason  here." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me,  then  ?  You  swore  you 
did  not  know  who  would  command  for  the  King. 
Why?" 

"O,  because  I  knew  you  a  poltroon.  If  you  had 
thought  you  had  him  against  you,  you  had  not 
dared.     I  know  you  I" 

Royston  gave  a  queer  laugh.     "Are  you  so  sure? 


LUCINDA    IS    WOOED  277 

..  .  .  But,  by  God!  I  would  break  your  back 
sooner  than  beat  him." 

She  stood  against  him,  quick-breathed,  defiant 
Her  charm  was  greatest  so.  But  Royston  looked 
down  at  her  with  a  small,  sneering  smile.  "Well. 
*Tis  his  back  I  have  made  you  break,"  she  said. 

Royston  shrugged.  "He  can  do  without  you. 
And  me,  my  dear.  Do  you  know,  sweetheart" — he 
laughed  on  the  word — "when  I  heard  him  shouting 
to  his  troopers  I  thanked  God  he  had  us  so  that 
there  was  no  way  out," 

"O,  you  thank  God  you  are  a  fool." 

"Perhaps  I  wish  I  were.  You  would  have  done 
without  me  then." 

"And  do  you  think  I'll  not  do  without  you  now?" 
she  cried.  "Well,  tell  me  the  tale.  Let  me  hear 
what  a  fool  you  are." 

Royston  told ;  dwelling  with  malicious  delight  on 
the  skill  of  Colonel  Stow  and  the  utter  rout  of  the 
Puritans.  "Faith,  Jerry  will  have  his  laugh  at  us 
to-day,  my  dear." 

"I  hate  you,"  she  cried,  and  her  eyes  flamed  and 
her  voice  was  ugly.  She  crouched  back  as  if  she 
would  spring  upon  him. 

"Why,  that  is  some  relish,"  he  laughed  and  ap- 
proached her.  "That  will  give  me  some  pleasure  at 
the  wedding." 

"Wedding?"  She  flung  a  shrill  laugh  back.  "Do 
you  think  I  will  wed  such  a  thing  as  you  ?  I  wanted 
a  man — a  man  to  revenge  me.    You — a  coward  that 


278  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

can  not  strike  for  himself,  a  weakling  that  whines 
for  a  blow.  I'll  lead  apes  in  hell  before  I  come  to 
your  arms." 

"Ay,  this  makes  it  sweeter  yet,"  said  Royston, 
with  an  evil  smile.  "Rage  against  me.  I  need  some- 
thing to  breed  me  love." 

"You — what  have  you  to  offer  me?  What  will 
they  give  you  here?  The  whip  for  a  false  spy, 
branding  for  the  foresworn.  Nay,  I  have  done  with 
you.  O,  you  were  no  worth  ever  in  yourself,  but  I 
thought  you  might  win  a  soldier's  place  in  this  cant- 
ing army.  If  you  won  power  and  wealth  I  could 
use  them.  But  you — you — why,  I  have  loved  a 
man." 

"Yes,  I  foresee  pleasure  for  you,"  said  Royston 
and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

With  the  strength  of  mad  passion  she  hurled  her- 
self free.  "Dare  that  again  and  I  cry  out  on  you 
for  a  ravisher,"  she  panted.  "O,  you  have  nothing 
in  you  but  the  force  of  a  brute.  Do  you  think  I 
will  yield  to  that?" 

"No.  You  shall  ask  for  it,"  said  Royston  coolly. 
He  sat  himself  down  at  his  ease  and  bent  his  dark 
brows  upon  her.  "Fool,  I  am  not  a  man  to  be 
cheated.  You  bought  me  to  be  a  rogue,  but  by 
God  you  shall  pay  my  price.  Bah,  I  knew  you 
would  be  false  if  you  could.  Try.  Tell  your  tale 
and  I'll  tell  mine.  You  have  left  yourself  no 
honor  with  the  King.  I'll  see  that  you  have  none 
here,"  he  laughed.     "Will  you  take  a  high  tone  to 


LUCINDA    IS    WOOED  279 

me?  By  Heaven,  you  shall  beg  before  me  before 
I  touch  you  again.  If  I  choose  to  leave  you,  what 
resource  have  you?  You  dare  not  go  back  to  the 
King.  All  the  army  knows  you  for  the  treacherous 
light  o'love  you  are.  Will  you  go  dwell  among 
the  yokels  ?  Ay,  till  your  hot  ambition  drives  you 
mad.  Will  you  try  your  charms  on  these  cold 
Puritans?  Faith,  that  should  be  mirthful.  I'll 
commend  you  to  Cromwell.  When  you  end  with 
the  slashed  face  the  godly  men  give  a  camp  follower 
I'll  provide  you  a  pittance."  She  was  very  pale 
and  she  shuddered  but  still  her  eyes  withstood  him. 
"Ay,  mistress,  you  have  cut  yourself  from  all 
but  me.  'All  for  love.'  quo'  she,  'and  the  world 
well  lost.'  And  I — well,  I  have  sold  myself  cheap, 
but  at  least  I  will  have  all  you  can  give."  He 
leaned  towards  her,  his  full  face  grim  and  greedy. 
She  moved  her  head  to  and  fro,  but  her  eyes  could 
not  escape  his.  Her  lips  were  apart  for  the  quick 
breath.  "Bah,  why  do  you  play  at  pride?  We 
have  done  with  that,  you  and  I.  We  are  bare  for 
each  other  in  greed  and  desire.  What  use  to  feign 
nice  dignity?  I  know  your  soul.  You  need  my 
ways.  Ay,  even  now  you  want  me,  you  are  leaning 
to  my  arms.  Fool,  do  you  think  I  can  not  feel  it? 
"Come!"  He  held  out  his  hand.  "Come!"  he 
cried  again,  his  face  flushing. 

She  looked  a  long  while,  trembling  a  little  again 
and  again.  Then  she  put  out  her  hand  timidly  and 
let  it  fall  in  his.     He  would  not  grasp  it,  he  drew 


28o  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

her  no  nearer.  She  heard  him  laugh.  A  blush 
flooded  all  her  face,  her  eyes  fell.  With  a  strange, 
wretched  cry  she  flung  herself  into  his  arms.  She 
was  crushed  against  him,  impotent,  sufi"ering. 
.  .  for  a  while  she  knew  nothing  but  pain.  Then 
she  cast  her  arms  about  him  and  clung  to  him  pas- 
sionately. "There  is — there  is  something,  isn't 
there?"  she  said  through  a  sobbing  laugh  and  hid 
her  face  against  his  shoulder.  He  took  her  chin 
and  forced  her  face  to  his  and  covered  her  with 
cruel,  greedy  kisses  .  .  .  She  gave  herself  to 
them  .  .  .  And  then  on  a  sudden  she  shrank 
away  from  him  and  covered  her  burning  cheeks 
and  shuddered  .  .  .  She  was  away  in  the 
farthest  reach  of  his  arms  and  rent  with  sobs. 

Royston    crushed    her    quivering    against    him. 
"My  wife,"  he  said  and  laughed.     "My  wife!" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE 

JOAN  NORMANDY  PLAYS   PROXY 

MISTRESS  Joy  Stone,  the  mayor's  daughter  of 
Thame,  loved  the  river  meadows.  Thither 
from  the  hospital  lodged  in  the  grammar  school, 
she  bore  Joan  Normandy.  A  quick  wind  came 
fragrant  from  the  limes  about  the  churchyard,  the 
thornbrakes  were  a  sweet  flame  of  white,  the  banks 
blue  with  speedwell.  But  Mistress  Joy  was  in  a 
great  haste.  They  turned  from  the  highway  to  the 
river  bank  and  Joan  hung  back  watching  the  swift, 
dark  water.  Mistress  Joy  snapped  off  a  kingcup 
and  sighed  and  pulled  another,  looked  over  the 
wide,  empty  meadows  and  sighed  again.  Her  round, 
childish  face  was  marked  with  a  quaint  gravity. 
"Do  you  like  me,  Joan?"  said  she.     "Truly?" 

"Why,  child,  who  does  not?" 

"I  am  sure  I  can  not  tell  why  any  one  should," 
said  Joy,  with  melancholy  satisfaction.  "I  am  very 
sinful  indeed.  Sometimes  I  think  I  am  a  child  of 
wrath.  And  I  am  quite  stupid.  And  I — would  you 
say  that  I  am  comely,  Joan?" 

"I  would  laugh  at  you  till  you  laugh  too." 

"I  suppose  one  ought  not  to  be  unhappy  save 
281 


282  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

concerning  one's  salvation.  Have  you  ever  been 
quite,  quite  unhappy,  Joan?" 

"In  truth,  child,  if  you  were  so  you  would  not 
tell  of  it." 

"I  am  shameful,"  said  Joy  with  decision.  "Dear 
heart,  do  I  weary  you  ?  You  are  strong  and  noble, 
and  I — why  it  is  a  puzzle  to  be  a  woman,  you 
know." 

"  'Tis  a  puzzle  you'll  not  get  out  of,  dear.  Nor 
want  to,  maybe." 

"O,  shall  I  not!  Would  I  could  change  my 
heart  and  my  coats,  I  should  go  the  easier.  Nay, 
but  conceive  me  a  man  !  Would  you  love  me,  sweet 
Joan?" 

"Sure,  sir,  you  are  too  bold,"  Joan  laughed. 

"Nay,  madame,  I  am  a  good  knight  and  kiss  be- 
fore I  speak,"  she  cried,  and  slipping  her  arm  about 
Joan's  waist,  she  did  it — and  sprang  back  as  if  she 
were  stung,  a  pretty  crimson.  Close  upon  them 
was  David  Stow.  She  turned  away,  tugging  Joan's 
hand.  "Nay,  Joan,  come — come  away,"  she  whis- 
pered wildly. 

"Why,  you  are  a  good  knight  and  kiss  before 
you  speak,"  Joan  laughed  in  her  ear,  and  louder: 
"Good  morrow,  sir." 

David  Stow  saluted.  "And  to  you,  madame." 
Joy  still  presented  to  him  her  back.  "Pray  convey 
my  greeting  to  Mistress  Stone's  face." 

"Major  Stow  would  salute  your  face,  cousin," 
quoth  Joan. 


JOAN    NORMANDY    PLAYS    PROXY  283 

"I  thank  him  for  it,"  Joy  stammered. 

"Sir,  she  thanks  you  for  it  with  my  lips,"  said 
Joan,  her  eyes  gay. 

"A  fair  proxy.     Madame,  will  you  walk?" 

"Why,  sir,  with  good  will,"  Joan  laughed  and 
proceeded  to  walk  away. 

There  was  a  cry  of  anguish.     "Joan !" 

David  Stow  arrested  her.  "Believe  me,  madame, 
you  will  be  an  aid." 

"Sure,  'tis  scarce  to  be  believed.  But  with  right 
good  will,  sir.  Come,  cousin."  She  linked  arms 
with  Joy,  but  her  design  to  bring  the  two  next  each 
other  was  frustrated  by  the  agility  of  both  of  them. 
So  the  three  paced  on  over  the  meadows,  Joan  smil- 
ing in  the  middle,  David  Stow  mightily  grave  upon 
her  left  hand,  Joy  hanging  back  out  of  his  sight  on 
the  other.  "The  thrushes  are  gay  in  the  sunshine," 
Joan  suggested.  They  had  nothing  to  say  about 
the  thrushes.  "There  is  meadowsweet  and  may 
in  the  wind."  They  were  not  inspired  by  the  wind. 
"Indeed,  'tis  a  fair  day  for  you."  They  had  no 
gratitude  for  the  day.  "But  I  can  not  do  it  all." 
She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  whimsical 
smile.  But  her  eyes  stayed  longer  upon  David 
Stow  and  the  smile  died. 

"A  man  never  knows  how  little  he  is  worth  till 
he  thinks  of  himself  with  a  woman,  madame,"  said 
he  with  the  air  of  a  discoverer. 

"It  must  then  be  a  melancholy  moment,  sir,"  says 
Joan. 


284  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"I  think  a  man  knows  little  of  a  woman,  Joan," 
said  Joy  in  a  low  voice, 

"For  then" — David  Stow  continued  his  confes- 
sions to  Joan — "for  then  he  perceives  how  coarse 
and  hard  is  man's  nature,  how  unfit  for  a  woman's 
soul." 

"For  which  God  made  it,"  said  Joan. 

"Nay,  madame,  which  of  us  does  not  know  how 
much  he  falls  short  of  the  purpose  of  God,  which 
designed  us  for  happiness  in  His  service." 

"And  good  courage." 

David  Stow  started  and  saluted  like  a  soldier 
who  has  been  chidden. 

"Joan,  I  think  it  hurts  sometimes  when  people 
call  themselves  ill,"  said  Joy,  her  voice  trembling. 

"That  is  when  the  people  are  dear  to  us,"  said 
Joan. 

"Nay,  nay,  not  that  at  all,"  Joy  cried  in  alarm. 
"But  you  would  not  have  people  abase  themselves, 
would  you,  Joan?     'Tis  like  being  a  coward." 

"Why,  then,  cousin,  I  think  I  heard  you  a  coward 
a  while  ago." 

David  Stow  made  an  exclamation.  Joy's  blushes 
surged  and  fled.     "Hush,  O,  hush !"  she  gasped. 

Joan  obeyed  .  .  .  "Nay,  then,  if  T  am  si- 
lent, what  will  befall  you?"  said  she. 

"Why,  madame,  I  could  tell  you  of  one  who  is 
a  coward  and  weak  and  vain  withal,  who  yet  dares 
hope — hope — "  But  he  dared  no  more  and  Joy 
dared  nothing. 


JOAN    NORMANDY    PLAYS    PROXY  285 

Then  Joan,  with  a  quaint,  tender  smile,  "Cousin, 
I  have  to  tell  you  of  one  who  dares  hope," 

"I — I — I — when  the  people  of  old  saw  God  they 
were  sore  afraid.  And,  Joan — do  you  think — is't 
even  so  when  we  know  the  joy  of  the  love  that  He 
gives  ?" 

"I  can  not  tell  that,"  said  Joan  in  a  low  voice.  She 
drew  her  arm  away  and  slipped  back,  leaving  them 
side  by  side.  It  was  at  the  man  she  looked,  at  his 
pale  face,  earnest  and  grave  .and  glad.  Then,  with 
a  strange  gesture  she  turned  and  fled  from  them. 

David  Stow  took  Joy's  hands  in  his  and  drew  her 
close.  Grave-eyed  and  pale  and  silent,  she  came 
and  rested  against  his  heart.  He  bowed  over  her, 
and  so  they  stood  in  the  sunlight,  still  and  quiet. 

But  as  Joan  sped  away  to  the  town  she  looked 
through  a  mist  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR 

LUCINDA  IS  WED 

THE  campaign  was  afoot.  Rupert  broke  out  of 
Oxford  and  made  a  swift  foray  .across  the 
midlands.  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  a  man  of  method, 
bade  his  New  Model  army  draw  together  upon 
Thame.  So  the  lieutenant  general  set  a  strong  post 
in  Abingdon  and  moved  northward. 

Now,  the  New  Model,  which  sought  to  provide 
itself  with  the  newest  inventions  of  the  art  of  war, 
had  got  a  great  regiment  of  dragooners.  There 
were  few  of  the  Puritans  knew  clearly  what  a 
dragooner  ought  to  be  or  do.  The  commissary 
general,  who  mistrusted  them  profoundly,  saw  in 
them  a  happy  way  to  dispose  of  Colonel  Royston. 
He  might,  being  a  veteran,  know  how  to  use  them. 
If  so,  well.  They  might,  being  neither  fish,  flesh 
nor  good  red  herring,  go  down  in  a  notable  ruin. 
And  that  would  not  be  all  ill,  either. 

So  it  is  as  major  of  the  lieutenant's  dragooners, 
the  weedy  men  on  cobs  with  red  coats  and  no  ar- 
mor nor  helmet,  but  a  sword  and  dragon  apiece, 
that  you  see  Royston  ride  into  Thame.     His  men 

286 


LUCINDA    IS    WED  287 

were  half  trooper,  half  musketeer,  and  the  scorn 
of  both,  but  Royston  liked  them  well  enough.  They 
were  ne'er-do-wells,  not  saints.  The  strenuous, 
godly  souls  chose  regiments  they  understood.  Roy- 
ston had  what  was  left,  the  fellows  who  wanted  not 
salvation  but  sport  and  eighteen  pence  a  day.  He 
understood  them.  With  them  he  could  make  him- 
self a  place. 

The  world  w,as  going  well  with  him  again.  He 
had  a  cynic  laugh  at  circumstance.  Honest  friend- 
ship brought  him  nothing  but  ill.  A  nasty  treason 
set  him  on  the  way  to  fortune  and  pleasure.  For 
there  was  pleasure,  keen  pleasure  that  whipped  his 
sense  and  mind,  in  Lucinda.  Her  hot  passion,  ay 
and  her  strength  that  strove  fierce  against  him  still, 
and  the  pain  he  saw  her  feel  bore  him  a  storm  of 
delight.  She  was  utterly  desirable  in  her  yearning 
and  her  scorn,  a  wild  woman  who  longed  for  him 
and  loathed  him  at  once,  made  fit  food  for  his 
desperate  soul. 

She  was  won  now.  He  rode  into  Thame  on  a 
May  morning  that  sparkled  with  frost  to  possess 
her.  The  mass  of  trees  about  the  gray  square  tower 
were  gay  in  their  new  dress,  gold  and  white  and 
gray  as  the  wind  played  and  a  hundred  dainty 
shades  of  green.  Royston  sent  his  men  to  their 
tents  in  the  fields  southward  of  the  little  town  and 
strode  away.  Lucinda  was  lodged  in  the  overhang- 
ing upper  rooms  of  a  new  house  by  the  grammar 
school.    She  kept  him  waiting  a  while,  and  when 


288  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

she  came  from  her  bed  chamber  surprised  him  by 
her  somberness.     She  was  all  dark  gray. 

"The  Puritan  bride,  sir,"  quoth  she  with  a  mock- 
ing curtsy. 

"Say  you  so?    Then  I  pity  you." 

"Well."  She  looked  at  him  long,  then  gave  a 
reckless  laugh.     "O,  ay,  we  are  fit  mates." 

"You  flatter  me,"  said  Royston,  as  he  gave  her 
his  arm. 

Together,  silent,  they  made  their  way  to  the 
church,  little  heeded  in  the  bustle  of  the  gathering 
army.  But,  on  a  sudden,  Lucinda  checked  and 
faltered.  Royston,  looking  down,  saw  her  face  all 
crimson.  "It  is  nothing.  It  is  a  faintness,"  she 
gasped,  and  for  a  moment  hung  heavy  on  his  arm. 

Through  the  throng  she  had  seen  a  lilting  gait 
that  she  remembered  and  was  aware  of  shame.  But 
her  heart  played  false.  She  knew,  she  knew  that  it 
could  not  be  he.  Angry,  with  head  erect,  she  went 
on  her  way.     Royston  had  not  seen. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  mayor's  house,  David  Stow 
made  way  for  Joan,  and,  turning,  saw  the  bride. 
He  made  an  exclamation.  "Surely  there  are  some 
there  that  we  know,"  quoth  he. 

Joan  saw  and  was  white.  "I — I  do  not  under- 
stand," she  said  unsteadily. 

"Nay,  but  I  must,"  said  David  Stow,  and  turned 
from  the  house  of  his  lady  and  went  after  them. 
And  Joan  followed  him. 

The  wind  was  blowing  free  through  the  great 


LUCINDA    IS    WED  289 

church,  for  the  glass  of  its  best  windows  had  been 
beaten  out  by  savory  souls,  zealous  to  destroy  the 
works  of  Baal,  when  they  rabbled  the  vicar.  On 
the  steps  of  the  choir,  Mr,  Hugh  Peters,  Crom- 
well's warrior  chaplain,  awaited  them  in  gown  of 
Geneva  and  bands.  Save  for  him  the  church  was 
empty.  "Gird  up  your  loins,"  he  cried.  "You 
come  to  a  godly  work,"  and  added  a  joke  kindly 
enough  but  something  broad. 

Upon  the  mere  wedding  he  wasted  Httls  time. 
It  was  a  bluff  question  apiece  and  a  hearty  "I  pro- 
nounce you  man  and  wife  before  the  living  God!" 
Mr.  Peters  was  not  a  man  of  ceremonies,  but  he 
valued  himself  as  a  preacher  and  that  he  had  but 
one  or  two  gathered  together  before  him  was  never 
any  restraint.  Lucinda  had  to  hear  a  history  of 
matrimony  from  its  origin,  illuminated  by  the  lead- 
ing cases  of  Bathsheba,  Jezebel  and  Henrietta  Ma- 
ria, which  later  became  a  homily  and  an  exhorta- 
tion on  wifely  duties,  distinguished  by  solid  sense 
rather  than  delicacy.  It  is  likely  that  Royston  was 
amused.  There  was  a  grim  humor  mingled  even 
in  his  passions.  But  Lucinda  had  nothing  of  that 
and  her  heart  was  raging.  That  this  ruddy  parson 
should  dare  to  school  her  like  a  milkmaid!     Cherish 

I  and  obey,  quotha !  The  Lord  loveth  a  goodly 
housewife!  The  godly  rearing  of  children!  Her 
eyes  flamed  at  Mr.  Peters.  Her  hands  clenched 
and  unclenched  nervously.  And  Mr.  Peters  smiled 
upon  her  and  spoke  with  some  unction  of  a  maid's 


290  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

fears.  Lucinda  was  hot  with  a  wrath  she  scarce 
understood.  There  was  a  questioning  wonder  in 
the  eyes  that  flamed.  True,  he  was  a  gross,  inso- 
lent fool,  but  that  should  not  suffice  to  move  her  so. 
He  promised  her  passion  the  burdens  of  common 
life,  the  dull  daily  labors  of  women  of  no  account. 
Bah,  it  was  ludicrous,  but  what  matter  for  such 
anger?  Why,  because  it  filched  the  glamour  and 
joy  from  her  desires;  she  sought  a  wild  reign  of 
sensation,  and  he  foretold  her  dull  wifehood,  the 
life  of  a  slave.  Service  of  Royston — was  that  to 
be  her  lot?  To  be  spent  in  motherhood  ?  She  turned 
upon  Royston  with  a  fierce  stare  of  hate,  and  seeing 
the  placid  sneer  on  his  full  lips  broke  out  in  ugly 
laughter. 

It  alarmed  Mr.  Peters,  who,  a  man  of  chanty, 
conceived  her  overwrought  by  the  fears  of  maidenly 
modesty  and  his  own  eloquence  and  cut  the  latter 
short.  He  took  them  apart  to  sign  his  book  (the 
registers  of  the  church  had  vanished  with  the  ex- 
iled vicar).  "I  dismiss  you  to  joy,"  said  he.  "But 
let  not  your  private  joys  make  you  sleepy  in  the 
service  of  the  Lord." 

"I'll  assure  they  shall  not,"  said  Lucinda,  and 
laughed  again. 

Royston  thrust  her  arm  through  his  with  a  mas- 
terful gesture  and  bore  her  off  at  a  gait  too  fast 
for  grace. 

From  behind  a  pillar  of  the  nave  came  a  neat 
man  of  middle  size,     Royston  checked  heavily  with 


LUCINDA    IS    WED  291 

a  thud  and  clatter  of  spur  and  sword  and  a  boom- 
ing oath.  Lucinda  was  struggling  to  be  away  from 
him.     For  surely  it  was  Colonel  Stow. 

"Pray,  sir,  have  you  any  tidings  of  my  brother?" 
said  David  Stow. 

"Good  morrow  and  well  met,"  said  Royston 
heartily.  "Did  you  know  my  wife  when  she  was 
a  maid?" 

David  Stow  saluted.  "I  have  heard  much  and 
heard  less  than  the  truth,  I  think,"  he  said,  and 
his  grave  eyes  rested  on  Lucinda. 

Lucinda  made  him  a  curtsy,  and  Royston,  giv- 
ing room  for  her  skirts,  stepped  aside  and  saw  Joan 
Normandy.  "Ha,  here  is  an  old  affection.  Yes, 
my  dear,  Jerry  is  very  well."  Lucinda,  starting 
at  the  tone,  turned  to  see  the  girl  blush  to  her  brow. 
The  two  women  gazed  at  each  other,  and  Lucinda 
saw  wonder  and  pity. 

"I  thought  you  and  Jerry  so  close  friends,"  said 
David  Stow  in  grave,  level  tones. 

"Why,  friends  we  are  still,  I  hope,"  said  Roy- 
ston with  a  laugh.  "Jerry  found  his  account  with 
the  King  and  I  could  not.  Faith,  sir,  the  more  I 
know  the  King's  cause  the  worse  I  like  it.  Jerry 
had  another  mind.     But  I  will  uphold  his  honesty." 

"You  are  very  good,  sir." 

"Well,  the  truth  is  I  sought  a  cleaner  standard, 
and  owing  no  faith  to  the  King,  was  free  to  seek. 
I  would  that  Jerry  were  of  my  mind  or  I  could  be 
of  his.     Well,  it  is  life!" 


292  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"And  Mistress  Royston  came  with  you  from  Ox- 
ford to  share  it?" 

"Why,  madame  could  not  endure  the  license  of 
the  court,  and — " 

"There  was  none  to  protect  her?" 

"There  was  none  to  whom  she  could  give  the 
right  but  me,"  said  Royston  with  dignity. 

David  Stow  looked  keenly  from  one  to  the  other. 
"I  give  you  joy  of  to-day,"  he  said  and  stood  aside 
to  let  them  pass. 

Lucinda,  as  she  swept  by,  saw  the  wonder  in 
Joan's  face  blent  with  joy     .     .     . 

David  Stow  turned  from  watching  them  back 
to  Joan.  "Shall  we  be  gone,  madame?"  But  he  saw 
that  she  did  not  hear,  he  saw  her  eyes.  Joan  was 
left  in  the  great  church  alone. 

Heavy  of  foot,  silent,  Lucinda  was  borne  to  her 
lodging.  Royston  looked  down  at  her  with  a  mock- 
ing smile,  but  he  did  not  understand.  Fear  dulled 
her  heart.  She  was  bound  by  the  new  dread  of  a 
jealous  hate.  If  Colonel  Stow  should  fall  to  an- 
other woman's  breast,  if  he  should  find  happiness 
so,  then  was  her  fate  intolerable.  That  Puritan  girl 
dared  love  him  and  it  might  be  .  .  .  while  she 
was  Royston's  toy     .     .     . 

Come  to  her  lodging,  safe  in  the  upper  room, 
Royston  caught  her  greedily.    Her  lips  were  cold. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE 

COLONEL   STOW    IS    SHOWN    HIS   DUTY 

"A  II /"E  go  out  to  war,  my  dear,"  said  Matthieu- 

^  ^     Marc. 

"And  you'll  come  back  and  marry  me,  will  'e 
not?"  said  Molly  amiably. 

Matthieu-Marc  coughed.  "Marriage,"  said  he, 
"is  a  sacrament ;  you  may  also  consider  it  a  sauce.  I 
am  not  sure  that  you  are  worthy  the  one.  I  am 
sure  that  you  need  not  the  other." 

Molly  boxed  his  ears.  "The  truth  is,  you  are 
afraid  of  me." 

"I  fear  nothing  but  God  and  an  English  ome- 
lette," said  Matthieu-Marc  with  indignation. 

"Then  you  do  not  love  me?"  said  Molly. 

"I  love  all  women — who  do  not  love  me." 

"Sure  that  is  the  whole  world  of  them!" 

Matthieu-Marc  recovered  his  spirits.  "I  shall  die 
the  bachelor  I  was  born,"  said  he  with  enthusiasm. 
Molly  proffered  her  cheek.  He  saluted  it  before 
he  swaggered  out. 

Then  Alcibiade,  who  had  been  eating  a  cake  in 
contented  obscurity,  approached  for  the  like  favor. 

293 


294  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Molly  withdrew.  "Parbleu,  Molly,  no  woman  loves 
me  neither,"  Alcibiade  protested. 

"  'Tis  a  fool  that  says  so." 

"But  would  a  fool  want  your  lips?" 

"No  fool  will  ever  get  them,"  quoth  Molly  and 
withstood  him  earnestly. 

So  that  he  faltered  in  the  struggle,  and  looking 
something  pathetic,  said,  "Adieu,  my  dear,"  and 
went  off. 

"Sure,  he  is  a  fool  indeed,"  said  Molly,  and  left 
her  cakes,  to  cry. 

They  had  not  gone  far  out  of  Oxford  when  the 
cavalry  came  clashing  against  the  Puritans.  Then 
Colonel  Stow  enjoyed  life.  One  good  regiment 
could  not  save  the  army,  but  his  could  entertain 
itself  well  in  affairs  of  outposts.  His  men  lacked 
indeed  the  Puritan  flame,  but  they  knew  their  trade 
now  to  the  last  letter,  and  in  the  crafty  by-play  of 
war  the  fanatic  had  no  advantage. 

While  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax  lay  at  Stony  Strat- 
ford, it  fell  to  Colonel  Rich,  a  very  fervent  mem- 
ber, to  watch  the  byways  through  Whittlewood  For- 
est. Now  Colonel  Stow,  schooled  in  the  Duke  of 
Weimar's  Black  Forest  campaigns,  had  reared  an 
uncommon  kind  of  cavalry  which  was  as  happy  in 
a  wood  as  out  of  it.  He  exercised  Colonel  Rich 
marvelously,  so  that  the  good  man  expected  the 
second  coming  sooner  than  ever.  The  seventh  an- 
gel, he  pointed  out,  had  plainly  poured  out  his  vial 
and  the  woman   which  sat  upon  the  scarlet  beast 


COLONEL  STOW  IS  SHOWN  HIS  DUTY  295 

was  already  almost  drunken  with  the  blood  of  the 
saints. 

Colonel  Stow  snapped  up  the  Puritans  here  and 
there  till  there  were  some  score  and  a  half  of 
melancholy  prisoners  locked  in  the  barn  at  Brack- 
ley  Hatch.  One  rainy  dawn  a  couple  of  squadrons 
got  past  Colonel  Rich  altogether  and  fell  on  Skip- 
pon's  quarters  at  Denshanger,  to  the  extreme  dis- 
pleasure of  that  worthy  martinet,  who  proposed 
that  Colonel  Rich  should  await  the  second  coming 
in  his  grave.  For  Colonel  Stow's  men  beat  in  a 
picket,  blew  up  a  stableful  of  powder,  carried  off 
a  wagon  of  silver,  a  score  of  prisoners  and  the 
sergeant  major's  pet  chaplain. 

Colonel  Rich  explained  that  his  name  should  be 
called  Magor  Missabib  and  that  the  beast  was  with 
power  and  seat  and  great  authority.  The  lieuten- 
ant general  pleaded  for  Colonel  Rich  as  a  vessel  of 
righteousness  and  Skippon  allowed  himself  to  be 
appeased. 

But  Colonel  Rich  was  hardly  the  happier.  He 
raged  through  the  forest  with  multiplied  fury, 
though  little  better  fortune. 

The  mass  of  the  King's  army  had  made  the  Wat- 
ling  Street  and  were  moving  away.  Colonel  Stow 
had  the  ordering  of  the  rear  guard.  Then  a  half 
dozen  of  his  troopers,  lingering  to  drink  in  Towces- 
ter,  were  overwhelmed  by  a  wild  charge  of  Colonel 
Rich's  men,  who,  pressing  on,  ran  their  heads  into 
a  neat  crossfire  and  were  greatly  mishandled.    Nev- 


296  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

ertheless,  Colonel  Rich  had  his  little  convoy  of  pris- 
oners and  was  not  ill  satisfied. 

In  the  end  of  the  day,  when  Colonel  Stow  was 
sitting  down  to  food  in  Paster's  Booth,  one  of  his 
men  broke  in,  much  damaged.  Scraps  of  his  shirt 
were  bound  about  his  forehead  and  his  left  arm ; 
he  lurched  in  his  walk.  "You  paid  for  that  ale  in 
Towcester,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"By  God,  sir,  the  others  be  like  to  pay  more,"  the 
man  cried  hoarsely.  "The  butcher  Rich,  he  would 
hang  us  all  at  dawn." 

"You  .are  drunken  still,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"And  I  wish  I  were,  for  Billy  Porter  be  one  of 
them,"  said  the  man.  "Sure,  'tis  gospel,  sir.  When 
he  lay  up  there  beyond  Towcester  he  had  us  parade 
in  the  farm-yard  in  front  of  him,  and  first  he 
preached  at  us  a  while,  and  swore  all  the  Bible  down 
upon  us,  and  then  he  bade  us  repent,  for  we  should 
be  hanged  ere  he  marched,  and  the  seed  of  the 
woman  should  bruise  the  serpent's  heel,  meaning 
you,  sir.  And  then  he  made  a  horrid  prayer  on  us, 
and,  seeing  his  sergeant  was  a-listening  mighty,  I 
made  a  dive  at  he  and  upset  he  on  the  muck  and 
the  others,  and  mostly  Billy  Porter,  being  violent, 
too,  there  was  a  mighty  to  do,  but  it  was  only  me 
won  away,  for  I  got  first  to  the  horses,  and  mighty 
good  practice  they  made  at  me,  too.  And  I  would 
as  lief  be  with  old  Billy  Porter,  I  am  sure."  He 
was  fairly  crying  for  weakness  and  strain. 

"Feed  him,"  said  Colonel  Stow  to  a  sergeant.  His 


COLONEL  STOW  IS  SHOWN  HIS  DUTY    297 

officers  were  loud  and  profane  in  indignation.  "An 
ill  game,  gentlemen.  We  will  play  our  hand.  Cap- 
tain Godfrey !  You  will  take  a  trumpet  and  ride  to 
Colonel  Rich  and  acquaint  him  that  for  each  man 
of  mine  so  murdered,  I  will  hang  two  of  his.  I 
will  give  you  a  letter.  Saddle,  sir.  Faith,  gentle- 
men, war  would  be  clean  enough  if  only  soldiers 
fought."  While  the  others  rattled  their  abuse 
noisily,  Colonel  Stow  sat  silent  and  heavy  with 
thought. 

A  while  after  he  sought  out  his  unhappy  prison- 
ers, who  lay  upon  straw  in  a  shed.  Colonel  Stow 
stood  before  them  between  two  torch  bearing  troop- 
ers, a  grim  vision  of  war  to  their  helplessness.  Hag- 
gard, unshaven  faces  loomed  white  at  him.  "Gen- 
tlemen !  I  am  forced  to  a  cruelty  I  hate.  Colonel 
Rich  of  your  army  hath  four  of  my  men  prisoners. 
He  swears  to  hang  them  for  no  offense  but  being 
his  foes.  This  I  can  not  suffer.  I  have  warned 
Colonel  Rich  that  if  he  will  not  observe  the  honor 
of  war,  I  may  not  either.  For  each  man  of  mine 
he  murders,  a  man  of  his  must  die.  Gentlemen,  I 
pray  God  he  may  not  put  me  to  such  extremity. 
But  if  he  will — I  warn  you.  Draw  lots  among 
yourselves.  If  my  men  die,  four  men  of  you  die 
with  the  morning." 

He  waited  lest  any  should  seek  to  answer.  There 
was  none.  The  Puritan  temper  knew  no  fear  of 
death.  They  asked  no  mercy.  They  flung  no  taunt 
either.     Colonel  Stow  looked  keenly  from  one  to 


298  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

the  other;  one  face  made  him  linger  long.  Then 
he  saluted  and  turned  away. 

Soon  his  adjutant  came  to  the  stable,  and  picking 
out  the  parson,  bade  him  come  and  speak  with  his 
colonel.  Again  John  Normandy  looked  into  the 
eyes  of  Colonel  Stow. 

"I  owed  you  more  courtesy,  sir,"  said  Colonel 
Stow  gravely.  "If  I  had  known  you  were  the  chap- 
lain we  took,  you  had  fared  better." 

"You  owe  me  nothing,"  said  the  minister.  "You 
served  me  well,  I  would  that  you  had  served  God 
so. 

There  was  a  crooked  smile  on  Colonel  Stow's 
lips.  He  remembered  what  had  chosen  his  cause 
for  him.  "Let  it  be,  then.  I  have  to  speak  of  this 
matter  of  to-night,  which,  on  my  soul,  I  loathe." 

"You  do  well,"  said  the  minister. 

"O,  understand  me!  I  have  no  shame  for  what 
I  do.  If  Colonel  Rich  would  play  the  butcher,  by 
butchery  I  must  school  him." 

"You  do  well,"  said  the  minister  again. 

"What,  sir?"  Colonel  Stow  cried  in  amazement, 

"Man,  man,  do  you  think  the  children  of  light 
have  less  care  for  righteousness  than  you?  Are  we 
not  shamed  that  a  leader  of  ours  should  keep  no 
faith  with  the  helpless?  I  protest  to  you  that  if 
Colonel  Rich  does  this  thing,  there  are  those  in  the 
host  of  the  Lord  will  take  such  vengeance  upon  him 
as  shall  cause  the  ears  of  all  them  that  hear  it  to 
tingle." 


COLONEL  STOW  IS  SHOWN  HIS  DUTY   299 

"I  hope  it  may  be  so,"  said  Colonel  Stow  grave- 
ly, with  no  great  faith.  "Nevertheless,  sir,  I  must 
do  my  part.  If  my  men  are  murdered,  there  must 
be  requital." 

"In  the  name  of  the  most  high  God,  so  let  it  be! 
Let  not  Israel  escape  the  sacrifice  for  their  sin." 

"But  you,  sir,  who  are  no  soldier,  but  a  minister 
of  God,  have  no  part  in  this.  I  do  not  war  with 
priests.     That  is  all." 

"What  have  I  then  done  that  you  should  be  thus 
tender  with  me?"  the  minister  cried  with  some 
scorn. 

It  was  some  time  before  Colonel  Stow  answered. 
There  were  a  thousand  mingled  memories  of  joy- 
ous devices  and  a  ride  in  the  springtime  and  hopes 
and  laughter  and  virginal  eyes.  "I  could  tell  you 
many  things  and  no  matter." 

"And  I  will  not  suffer  this  mercy,"  the  minister 
cried.  "I  will  bear  my  brothers'  fate.  Why,  what 
vile  thing  were  I,  who  preach  there  is  no  sting  in 
death,  to  shrink  from  it?  Nay,  sir,  you  put  me  to 
shame.  If  you  seek  to  be  kindly,  as  I  think,  you'll 
make  no  more  of  this.  I  know  the  calling  where- 
with I  am  called.    Let  me  go  comfort  my  brethren." 

Colonel  Stow  rested  his  head  on  his  hand  and 
stared  at  the  fire.  "I  have  done  what  I  could,"  he 
said. 

The  minister  looked  at  him  with  a  grave  kindli- 
ness. "I  would  to  God  that  thou  wert  almost  and 
altogether  such  as  I  am,  except  these  bonds,"  he 


300  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

said.  But  it  was  not  he  wiio  had  the  air  of  a  pris- 
oner. 

Colonel  Stow  held  out  his  hand. 

"Farewell,  if  it  be  farewell,"  said  the  minister. 
"Verily,  before  the  judgment  seat  of  God,  I  will 
protest  you  guiltless  in  this  matter." 

Colonel  Stow  sat  alone,  looking  at  the  failing  fire. 
The  thing  moved  him  more  than  he  could  have  be- 
lieved possible.  It  was  an  old  necessity  of  war, 
and,  though  to  him  as  to  all  soldiers  by  trade,  it 
bore  disgust,  no  matter  to  break  the  heart.  The 
minister  surely  disturbed  him  out  of  reason.  There 
was  no  profit  in  thinking  of  the  past  and  the  girl 
who  cried  for  her  father.  The  girl  .  .  .  the 
clean  light  of  her  eyes  held  him  as  of  old  .  .  . 
And  the  thing  would  have  been  easier  if  the  minister 
had  been  a  lesser  man.  It  was_  an  impertinence  of 
him  to  be  admirable  .  .  .  Well,  there  was  at 
least  the  chance  that  Colonel  Rich  would  be  advised. 

Captain  Godfre)'^  came  in  from  his  ride,  and 
while  he  fumbled  for  a  letter,  answered  Colonel 
Stow's  questioning  eyes.  "Moon  struck,  sir.  Dog 
mad.    Wolf  mad."    Colonel  Stow  opened  his  letter. 

At  Caldecote,  20th  May,  1645. 
Sir — Yours  to  hand.  I  saw  an  angel  standing 
in  the  sun,  and  he  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  saying 
to  all  the  fowls  that  fly  in  the  midst  of  heaven, 
"Come  and  gather  yourselves  together  unto  the  sup- 
per of  the  great  God,  that  ye  may  eat  the  flesh  of 


COLONEL  STOW  IS  SHOWN  HIS  DUTY   301 

Kings  and  the  flesh  of  captains  and  the  flesh  of 
mighty  men." 

God's  will  be  done.  I  will  smite  and  spare  not 
and  ye  that  bear  the  mark  of  the  Beast  shall  be  un- 
done in  your  iniquity. 

Let  this  be  your  answer. 

The  minister  of  the  wrath  of  the  Lord, 

Nehemiah  Rich. 

"Sir,  this  he  gave  me  with  more  blasphemy  than 
I  can  remember,"  said  Captain  Godfrey.  "On  my 
soul,  he  is  beside  himself.  'Fellow,'  he  says,  'to- 
morrow about  this  time  your  brethren  in  iniquity 
shall  be  even  as  they  that  Rizpah  bare  to  Saul.  Go 
to.  Look  to  it.  Repent!'  and  he  gnawed  at  his  lip 
and  it  was  frothy." 

Colonel  Stow  sat  pondering  a  while,  then  again 
he  sought  his  prisoners.  The  calm  murmur  of  talk 
fell  as  he  came  to  them.  They  gazed  at  him  from 
their  straw,  steadily  through  the  lantern  light,  with 
no  sign  of  trouble.  "Gentlemen,  I  have  to  tell  you 
Colonel  Rich  abides  by  his  purpose.  My  men  are 
to  die,  and  four  of  you  must  make  ready  to  die  in 
the  morning.     Draw  lots  with  yourselves." 

"We  have  chosen,"  said  the  minister's  deep  voice. 

"Which  are  they?"  said  Colonel  Stow  quickly. 

"They  shall  be  ready,"  said  the  minister. 

Colonel  Stow  saluted.  "Gentlemen,  this  way  of 
war  is  not  mine.     I  am  sorry." 

"Fear  not,"  said  the  minister. 


302  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

While  he  came  again  to  his  fireside,  he  heard  the 
prisoners  singing: 

My  table  Thou  hast  furnished 

In  presence  of  my  foes ; 
My  head  Thou  dost  with  oil  anoint, 

And  my  cup  overflows. 

Goodness  and  mercy  all  my  life 

Shall  surely  follow  me. 
And  in  God's  house  for  evermore 

My  dwelling  place  shall  be. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX 

COLONEL  RICH  IS  INTERRUPTED 

SIR  Thomas  Fairfax,  who  was  dark  and  ruddy 
and  of  a  goodly  countenance,  sat  at  his  ease 
after  dinner.  To  neither  was  he  much  devoted,  but 
enjoyed  both  when  he  could.  The  lieutenant  gen- 
eral was  eloquent  from  the  other  side  of  the  fire  on 
the  right  reading  of  Jeremiah  xvi:i7,  and  Sir 
Thomas  Fairfax  regarded  him  with  a  plaintive,  rev- 
erent curiosity. 

There  was  an  interruption  from  Captain  Vere. 
"A  young  woman  asks  for  the  general,  sir." 

Fairfax  sat  up.  "With  what  purpose?"  says  he 
briskly. 

"O,  sir,  godly,"  quoth  Captain  Vere.  "  'Tis  a 
nurse  with  some  petition  about  her  father." 

Fairfax  sat  back  again.  He  looked  pensively  at 
his  lieutenant  general  and  weighed  the  two  evils. 
"Let  her  come,  Dick,"  said  he. 

Joan  Normandy  made  her  curtsy.  Her  face 
was  worn  and  wan,  her  long  gray  cloak  stained 
from  the  road.  "If  it  please  you,  sir — "  she  began 
in  a  breathless  hurry. 

"It  does  not  please  me  till  you  sit,"  said  Fairfax 
303 


304  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

and  rose  to  set  her  a  chair  and  stood  before  the  fire 
looking  down  at  her  with  kindly  eyes. 

She  could  not  wait  to  thank  him.  "I  am  Jean 
Normandy,  sir,  and  I  follow  after  you  to  nurse  the 
sick.  My  father,  who  is  chaplain  to  the  sergeant 
major  general — " 

"Then  your  father  is  honestly  a  man  of  God," 
quoth  the  lieutenant  general.  "I  have  heard  him, 
sir.     He  is  savory.     Go  on." 

"Sir,  he  has  been  taken  prisoner  by  the  Royalists. 
I  beseech  you,  give  an  order  that  he  be  changed 
against  a  prisoner  of  yours,  for  he  is  stricken  in 
years  and  I  fear  for  him  in  captivity.  And,  indeed, 
they  say  the  Cavaliers  are  bloody  men."  Her  voice 
swayed  from  note  to  note. 

"Be  of  good  courage,  child,"  said  Cromwell. 

"Nay,  take  heart,"  quoth  Fairfax.  "They  are 
foes,  but  they  will  not  murder  their  prisoners,  nor 
lay  hands  upon  a  minister  of  the  Lord.  For  the 
rest — it  shall  be  in  charge.  We  will  change  him  in 
the  next  parley." 

"But  now,  but  now!"  she  cried.  "He  is  not  a 
soldier;  he  is  not  strong  to  endure  their  hardness." 

"Why,"  Fairfax  looked  at  Cromwell.  "We  have 
no  prisoners  here  in  hand,  I  think,"  and  Cromwell 
shook  his  head. 

"Yes,  indeed.  Only  to-day  Colonel  Rich  took 
some,  I  heard,  and  I  have  been  to  him  already 
to  beg  him  give  them  for  my  father.  But  he  will 
not.     He  will  hang  them,  he  says." 


COLONEL   RICH    IS   INTERRUPTED     305 

Fairfax  stiflFened.  Through  the  full,  easy,  kindly 
face  broke  hard  lines.  "Hang?  Prisoners  admitted 
to  quarter?    You  are  certainly  wrong." 

"I  can  not  be.  I  have  come  from  him.  He  sv/ore 
that  he  would  not  spare  one." 

"He  deceives  himself,"  said  Fairfax  and  turned 
on  the  lieutenant  general.  "He  is  your  friend,  I 
think.     Have  you  anything  to  say?" 

"Sir,  I  would  have  you  forget  that  he  is  friend 
of  mine.  Why,  sir,  this  is  to  be  like  Peter  that 
was  thirsty  for  blood  out  of  all  season.  I  pray  that 
he  be  not  even  as  Peter,  which  presently  denied  his 
Lord." 

But  Fairfax  was  writing  already : 

At  Towcester,  Thursday. 

Sir — It's  reported  that  you  have  taken  certain  of 
the  enemy,  the  which  you  purpose  to  hang.  I  am 
loath  to  believe  it,  being  a  thing  abhorrent  to 
Christian  men.  This  Is  to  command  you  to  keep 
them  alive.  You  will  further  send  3.  trumpet  to  the 
enemy,  requesting  an  exchange  for  Mr.  Normandy, 
chaplain  to  the  sergeant  major  general,  and  use 
zeal  to  effect  this.  Report  to  me  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

T.  Fairfax. 

To  Colonel  Nehemiah  Rich. 

He  turned  to  Captain  Vere.  "Get  to  horse,  Dick. 
Ride  out  quickly.     This  shall  serve  you  now,  child. 


306  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

all  we  can.  In  truth,  I  thank  you  heartily.  You 
have  helped  me  stay  a  vile  thing." 

"Nay,  sir,  nay,  'tis  I  thank  you,  indeed."  She 
curtsied  from  one  to  other  of  the  two  great  men 
and  was  plainly  in  haste  to  be  gone. 

"So.    Go  to  your  rest,  child.    You  are  provided." 

"Yes,  indeed,  sir,"  said  she,  and  hurried  out. 

Then  Fairfax  turned  to  Cromwell.  "Sir,  I  pro- 
test, if  this  be  true,  I  will  have  no  mercy  on  your 
Nehemiah  Rich.     It's  a  damnable  thing." 

"O,  sir,  let's  not  be  quick  to  condemn.  It  is  a 
godly  man  and  a  righteous,  and  if  he  stumble,  it  is 
by  excess  of  zeal,  whereof  we  can  never  have  too 
much,  seeing  that  the  Lord's  cause  is  in  more  of 
danger  from  them  of  Laodicea  than  all  the  heathen, 
yea,  very  principalities  and  powers,  which  are 
against  it." 

"Zeal!  The  Lord's  cause!"  cried  Fairfax.  "I 
tell  you,  sir,  I  have  heard  of  no  man  butchering  his 
prisoners  but  the  Papist  Pappenheim.  Shall  we 
learn  of  him?  I  tell  you  while  I  command  this  army 
we  shall  make  war  like  Christians." 

Cromwell  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand.  "You 
say  well,  sir.  I  do  protest  you  are  in  an  honest, 
thriving  way.  Bear  with  me  who  am  swayed  by  a 
carnal  friendship,  but  do  in  all  things  approve  your 
motions  with  a  humble  heartiness.  O,  sir,  verily 
the  Lord  hath  a  poor  servant  in  me,  who  put  his 
honor  second  to  a  private  kindness.  In  truth,  I  am 
a  chief,  the  chief  of  sinners."     He  swayed  in  his 


COLONEL   RICH   LS   INTERRUPTED    307 

seat  and  bit  his  lip  till  specks  of  blood  lay  upon  it 
and  his  chin. 

Fairfax  looked  at  his  emotions  with  a  patient 
wonder.  "Why,  you  make  too  much  of  it,"  said 
he.  "A  friend  is  a  friend,  and  why  not  care  for 
him?  But  duty  is  duty."  With  which  it  appeared 
to  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  he  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion of  the  whole  matter.  But  the  lieutenant 
general  was  still  a  prey  to  emotions.  Fairfax  grew 
weary. 

There  were  moments  when  Cromwell  inspired  him 
with  a  vigorous  suspicion.  It  was  impossible  for 
him  to  believe  in  passionate  emotion  over  little  mat- 
ters. A  gentleman  who  professed  to  be  in  trouble 
about  his  soul  because  he  made  a  mistake  in  tactics, 
was  a  hypocrite  to  the  plain  mind  of  Sir  Thomas 
Fairfax.  A  gentleman  who  did  continually  accuse 
himself  of  weakness  and  sin,  must  be  an  unpleasant 
example  of  the  braggart.  And  yet — and  yet — 
Cromwell  had  never  failed  him,  had  served  him 
with  a  perfect  faith,  though  he  must  needs  know 
which  was  the  better  soldier  of  the  two  of  them. 
Ay,  indeed,  the  man  was  a  most  excellent  soldier. 
Fairfax,  who  knew  war  thoroughly,  knew  no  match 
for  this  hysterical  fellow,  with  his  tears  and  his 
convulsions  and  outpourings  of  the  spirit.  Which 
was  certainly  most  strange.  Stranger  yet  was  his 
power  over  men.  That  a  fellow  who  was  always 
troubling  about  his  own  soul  should  understand 
other  men  utterly;  that  a  fellow  who  was  always 


3o8  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

talking  of  his  own  weak  fears  should  master  sane, 
sturdy  minds  and  command  their  devotion;  these 
things  were  a  mystery  to  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax.  "My 
Lord  Fairfax,"  said  his  Grace  of  Buckingham  in 
later  days,  "saw  not  far  beyond  his  noble  nose  but 
what  he  saw  he  saw  clear." 

Certainly  Fairfax  did  not  suspect  the  doings  of 
Joan  Normandy,  and  would  have  been  as  much 
surprised  as  ill  pleased  if  he  had  seen  her  on  her 
hackney  pursuing  his  cousin  Captain  Vere  down 
the  Watling  Street.  There  was  indeed  no  great 
folly  in  it,  for  the  outposts  at  Caldecote  lay  only 
a  short  two  miles  from  Towcester,  but  Sir  Thomas 
Fairfax  had  opinions  upon  propriety.  Joan  Nor- 
mandy was  outside  all  that.  She  had  no  fear  while 
she  did  no  wrong.  She  could  not  bear  to  await  un- 
certain tidings.  She  had  been  wrought  too  long. 
It  was  not  her  temper;  it  was  not  the  teaching  of 
war  to  rest  while  others  served  her.  All  which, 
more  modestly,  she  told  Captain  Vere,  when  hearing 
hoofs  behind  him,  he  waited  for  what  they  might 
bring.  Captain  Vere,  being  near  her  own  age,  chid 
her  in  fatherly  style,  but  could  scarce  bid  her  back, 
or,  if  he  did,  ensure  that  she  would  obey.  More- 
over, they  were  already  close  upon  Colonel  Rich's 
quarters.  So  he  brought  her  through  the  sentries 
and  she  waited  anxiously  in  the  dark  of  the  vil- 
lage street  while  Captain  Vere  went  to  the  cottage 
where  the  colonel  lay. 

It  is  idle  to  pretend  that  the  zeal  of  Colonel  Rich 


COLONEL   RICH    IS    INTERRUPTED     309 

was  sufficient  to  make  him  well  pleased  at  a  dis- 
turbance of  his  first  slumbers.  He  was  in  no  way 
mollified  by  Fairfax's  letter  .and  snarled  over  it  at 
Captain  Vere.  "I  see  well  that  Shimei  hath  been 
before  me  with  the  general  that  I  might  be  put  to 
shame.  Young  man,  be  admonished.  Evil  men 
understand  not  judgment,  but  they  that  seek  the 
Lord  understand  all  things." 

"I  understand  the  general  requires  you  to  obey 
in  haste,  sir." 

"How  now!  Shall  I  be  taught  by  a  child?  Ver- 
ily, if  a  ruler  harken  to  lies,  all  his  servants  are 
wicked." 

"Am  I  to  take  that  answer  back,  sir?" 

"Nay,  go  to.     I  will  see  to  it  in  the  morning." 

"Now  is  late  enough,"  quoth  Captain  Vere. 

Colonel  Rich  exploded  in  an  allocution  out  of 
Jeremiah.  Its  full  force  was  broken  by  pistol  shots. 
Captain  Vere  ran  out  in  a  hurry. 

"What  is  it?  What  does  he  answer?  What  will 
he  do?"  cried  Joan  Normandy. 

But  Captain  Vere  was  not  concerned  for  his  er- 
rand or  her.  He  stood  with  one  foot  in  the  stirrup, 
looking  either  way  of  the  night.  From  either  way 
came  the  swift  thunder  of  horsemen,  and  Colonel 
Rich's  troopers,  half-dressed,  half-armed,  half- 
waked,  were  running  to  and  fro,  seeking  their  teth- 
ered unsaddled  chargers.     There  was  no  time. 

Colonel  Stow,  meditating  over  his  fire  at  Faster's 
Booth,  had  been  inspired  by  the  twenty-third  psalm. 


3IO  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Since  his  prisoners  could  take  heart  of  that  in  their 
peril,  it  did  not  become  him  to  surrender  to  fate. 
If  they  could  endure  with  good  heart,  he  must  have 
good  heart  to  act.  He  could  not  take  back  his 
word.  For  his  men's  death  the  Puritans  must  die. 
So  much  he  owed  to  the  regiment  and  the  cause. 
But  there  might  be  a  better  way.  It  was  a  chance. 
But  all  war  and  life  walked  on  the  edge  of  chance. 
It  was  more  than  a  cool  head  would  dare.  But 
the  Puritan  temper  had  struck  fire  from  his.  They 
should  not  show  a  stronger  courage  than  he.  Mr. 
Normandy  should  find  that  he  possessed  a  soul, 
too. 

He  sent  for  Captain  Godfrey  and  the  man  who 
had  escaped,  and  hammered  out  of  them  all  they 
knew  of  Colonel  Rich's  quarters.  Then  he  took 
two  squadrons. 

You  see  them  through  flickering  moonbeams,  a 
long  clattering  line,  ride  by  the  Watling  Street, 
where,  straight  as  an  arrow,  treeless  and  white,  it 
drives  across  the  high  ground.  A  keen  wind  beat 
at  their  faces.  The  moonlight  flashed  out  and  was 
swiftly  hidden  behind  scurrying  clouds;  now  they 
were  in  deep  blue  shadow,  now  bold  against  silvery 
light     It  was  a  night  to  mock  men's  eyes. 

When  a  black  gulf  before  them  marked  the  fall 
of  the  land  to  the  Tove  Valley  they  were  halted  and 
split  in  half.  Colonel  Stow  had  a  quick  parley  with 
Sedley,  the  best  of  his  captains,  and  himself  led 
the   first  squadron  away  by  the  open  turf  to  the 


COLONFX   RICH    IS    INTERRUPTED     311 

right.  A  little  while  after,  the  sentries  of  Colonel 
Rich  to  the  rearward,  on  the  Towcester  Road,  where 
they  feared  nothing,  were  suddenly  overwhelmed 
by  a  storm  of  horsemen,  and  while  the  night  guard 
hurried  to  their  aid,  a  second  squadron  fell  upon  the 
outposts  of  the  other  side  and  all  defense  was  beaten 
in.  The  half-waked  Puritans  ran  hither  and  thither, 
helpless,  and  Colonel  Stow's  troopers  stormed 
through  the  village,  riding  them  down.  Colonel 
Stow  understood  the  affair.  The  first  mark  of  his 
men  was  the  Puritans'  horses.  In  few  moments 
they  had  found  the  horse  lines  and  the  horses  were 
cut  loose  and  driven  off  in  a  wild  mob.  The  rest 
was  easy.  The  Puritans,  unarmed  for  fighting  afoot, 
taken  unaware,  had  no  chance  to  stand  and  were 
broken  to  dust. 

With  the  first  wild  charge  down  the  village  street 
Joan  Normandy  was  whirled  away  and  flung  head- 
long. Even  as  she  fell  she  heard  a  deep  voiced 
roar  above  her:  "Open  out!  Files!  Open  out!" 
What  next  she  knew  was  waking  to  pain,  dizzy 
with  a  hissing  in  her  ears.  .  .  .  She  was  on 
horseback  in  a  man's  arms.  His  hand  brushed  the 
dust  from  her  hair.  A  pale  face  bent  to  her,  a  face 
she  knew  .  .  .  She  cried  out  like  a  child  in 
fear  and  tried  to  start  away.  But  she  was  held  fast. 
He  took  no  more  heed  of  her.  She  saw  him  looking 
all  ways.  Then  he  signed  to  a  man  at  his  elbow 
and  a  trumpet  blared.  Swiftly  troopers  began  to 
rally   about   them.     A   man   thrust  through   them 


312  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

with  authority.  "I  have  all  the  rascals,  sir,"  and 
she  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  fellows  afoot. 

"I'll  promise  them  tribulation,"  said  Colonel 
Stow.     And  he  signed  again  to  the  trumpeter. 

The  street  was  full  of  troopers  now,  and  sharp 
orders  rang  down  the  column.  Soon  they  were 
upon  the  march  again,  moving  swiftly  through  the 
night  before  a  strong  rearguard. 

Colonel  Stow  bent  over  her.  She  saw  again  the 
earnest  joy  of  those  dark  eyes  and  her  heart  changed 
its  beat.  "This  is  a  fairer  prisoner  than  I  thought 
for,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  was  glad. 

"Why?"  she  asked  quickly,  and  blushed  and  felt 
his  arm  about  her  and  throbbed  with  shame.  "Ah, 
was  it  you  who  took  my  father?" 

"Even  I,"  said  Colonel  Stow.  He  laughed.  "And 
by  my  soul,  I  am  not  sorry  for  it  now." 

"Why  is  that?" 

"My  dear,  he  has  made  me  admire  myself  to- 
night" Colonel  Stow  looked  down  at  her  with  a 
whimsical  smile,  awaiting  her  righteous  wrath  at 
levity. 

But  the  first  small  puzzled  frown  was  quickly 
gone.  She  gave  a  long  happy  sigh.  Through  the 
changing  moonlight  he  saw  the  calm  of  her  white 
face.     "I  am  sure  he  is  safe,"  she  murmured. 

"And  how  art  sure?" 

"You  do  not  know  much  of  yourself,"  said  the 
girl,  and  her  voice  was  slow  with  weariness.     Then 


tjfc^-'-- ^' 


COLONEL   RICH    IS    INTERRUPTED     313 

he  felt  her  stay  herself  more  easily  against  him.  Her 
eyes  closed. 

Colonel  Stow  was  aware  of  a  strange  tenderness 
as  for  a  child.  He  drew  his  cloak  about  her. 
Shrouded  in  it,  she  lay  warm  on  his  breast,  hidden, 
save  for  the  round  white  cheek.  So  they  rode  on 
at  an  easy  pace  and  she  slept  in  his  arms. 

The  wind  was  falling  as  they  climbed  to  the  hills. 
The  moon  sank  out  of  sight.  The  dark  stillness 
of  the  foredawn  came  over  all.  It  was  cold  and 
they  rode  on,  cloaked  by  a  thin  mist,  like  ghosts 
making  homeward  before  the  day.  The  men  were 
something  weary  and  there  was  little  talk.  Only 
sometimes  a  murmur  of  laughter  mingled  with  the 
dull  rattle  of  the  march. 

Colonel  Stow  hardly  knew  himself.  He  rested 
in  strange  calm.  There  was  no  vivid  feeling  in 
him  nor  thought.  Keen  desire  of  the  morrow's  for- 
tune was  gone.  The  eager  mind  sought  no  more 
into  what  might  be.  He  possessed  the  present,  and 
it  sufficed.  It  gave  him,  indeed,  no  all-conquering 
joy.  Once,  in  a  ride  through  the  night,  he  had 
known  the  wild  beat  of  passionate  life.  That  was 
past.     Only  he  was  greatly  content. 

While  the  houses  loomed  up  before  him,  while 
the  column  drew  rein  and  broke,  a  line  of  gold 
flamed  across  the  gloom  of  the  eastern  sky.  Soft 
light  grew  about  them  and  horses  and  men  moved  in 
it  vague  and  vast.     With  the  changing  sound  and 


314  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

movement  Joan  Normandy  woke  and  her  misty  eyes 
questioned. 

"  'Tis  the  dawn,  child,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"O — the  dawn — "  she  looked  vaguely  about  her ; 
then  her  eyes  came  back  to  his. 

Colonel  Stow  swung  down  and  carried  her  into 
his  quarters.  "Indeed,  I  can  walk,"  she  said,  stir- 
ring in  his  arms,  but  he  took  no  heed  and  she  gave 
him  his  way.  He  set  her  down  in  that  chair  by  the 
fire  from  which  ho  had  faced  her  father  and  stood 
over  her.  It  was  strange  to  him  that  she  asked 
nothing.     Her  gray  eyes  were  intent  upon  him. 

"I  will  fetch  your  father,  child." 

"Yes." 

Colonel  Stow  went  out.  A  sergeant  was  sent  on 
the  errand.  In  the  mellow  light  he  met  the  min- 
ister eye  to  eye. 

"It  is  dawn,  sir.  We  are  ready,"  said  the  min- 
ister calmly. 

Colonel  Stow  was  some  while  in  speaking.  "There 
is  no  need.  I  have  found  a  better  way.  Sir,  Colonel 
Rich  will  murder  no  men  of  mine.  I  have  rescued 
them  all,  and  Colonel  Rich's  regiment  is  broken." 

"Verily,  the  Lord  reigneth.  He  is  clothed  with 
majesty,"  cried  the  minister.  "O,  sir,  you  have  re- 
moved our  reproach.  You  have  been  His  instru- 
ment to-night  to  chasten  them  that  dared  do  evil  in 
His  name." 

"Sir,  the  best  is  that  you  are  safe.  I  will  ask  one 
thing  of  you  now.     Ride  to  General  Fairfax  with 


COLONEL  RICH   IS   INTERRUPTED    315 

a  letter  from  me  to  tell  him  Colonel  Rich's  manner 
of  war  and  give  him  your  own  tidings  of  that  you 
know." 

"I  will  do  it  heartily.  Nay,  then,  but  is  not  this 
a  cunning  way  to  do  me  a  kindness?" 

"And  if  it  were!  Why,  may  I  do  nothing  for 
you?  But  in  truth,  sir,  consider,  for  the  honor  of 
your  own  cause  as  for  the  safety  of  my  men,  it  is 
fit  he  hear  the  truth  from  one  he  can  trust" 

"You  say  well.  O,  sir,  you  are  too  good  a  man 
for  your  cause.  The  Lord  needs  such  as  you.  Nay, 
but  who  am  I  to  judge?  It  may  be  He  has  His 
work  for  you  here." 

"Which  of  us  sees  clear?"  said  Colonel  Stow,  and 
there  was  some  bitterness  in  his  tone.  "But  I  have 
more  tidingfs,  sir.  With  what  purpose,  God  knows, 
but  I  found  your  daughter  in  our  surprise  of  Colonel 
Rich,  and  to  save  her  from  worse,  brought  her 
here.     She  is  not  hurt." 

"My  daughter?"  the  minister  gasped  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"Come  and  see." 

The  girl  rested  at  her  ease.  Her  cloak  was  put 
off  and  the  gentle  light  revealed  the  dainty  fulness 
of  her  womanhood.  She  had  tried  to  set  some  order 
in  her  hair,  but  it  was  wayward  still,  a  wild  cloud 
of  gold.  Life  had  come  to  her  round  cheeks  again. 
Her  dark  eyes  told  of  peace.  Her  bosom  swayed 
slow. 

Colonel  Stow  stood  with  his  hand  clenching  upon 


3i6  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

the  door  while  he  looked  and  her  father  passed  be- 
fore him. 

She  started  up,  dawn  breaking  in  her  eyes.  She 
was  in  her  father's  arms.  "Sweet  heart,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  shook.  "Sweet  heart"  She  hid  her 
face  in  his  shoulder.  "Why,  and  how  came  you 
here?" 

"I  am  his  prisoner,"  she  murmured. 

"But  what  gave  you  to  his  hands?  You  were 
not  seeking  to  be  a  prisoner,  sweet  heart?" 

She  gave  a  strange  little  wild  laugh.  Then  she 
looked  up,  thrusting  the  hair  from  her  brow.  "No, 
no  truly.  I  was  trying  for  you,"  and  she  told  the 
story  of  her  night.  "And  you — why,  I  suppose  you 
were  safe  all  the  while,  since  'twas  Colonel  Stow." 

The  minister  turned  to  Colonel  Stow,  who  stood 
by  grave  and  pale.  Colonel  Stow  made  a  gesture. 
"Tell  her." 

"I  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  true  man,  child,"  said 
her  father,  caressing  her  hair. 

The  girl  smiled,  and  trembling  a  little,  held  out 
her  hand  to  Colonel  Stow.  He  looked  down  at  her 
grave  and  intent  and  under  his  eyes  she  began  to 
blush.  His  brow  darkened,  too.  He  took  her  hand, 
and  bowing,  held  his  lips  to  it  long. 

"That  at  least — I  have  that,"  he  muttered.  Then 
with  calm  precision,  "You  must  need  rest,  as  we  do 
all.  Make  these  quarters  yours.  Before  noon,  I 
must  send  j^ou  back  to  General  Fairfax."  He  sa- 
luted and  was  gone. 


COLONEL   RICH    IS    INTERRUPTED     31/ 

The  minister,  looking  down  at  his  daughter,  saw 
her  eyes  grow  dull  and  weariness  draw  over  all  her 
face.  "Nay,  you  are  worn  out,  child,"  he  said,  and 
led  her  to  the  settle. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said  listlessly. 

He  made  her  lie  down  with  her  cloak  rolled  for 
a  pillow,  and  himself  went  out  to  take  the  good  news 
to  his  fellows.  But  her  cheeks  were  wet  before  she 
slept. 

An  hour  before  noon  the  minister  came  to  wake 
her.  She  rose  with  misty,  dreamful  eyes.  "What 
is  it?"  she  murmured.  "Yes,  I  remember"  .  .  . 
The  noise  of  the  mustering  regiment  was  borne 
through  the  window.     .     .     .     "Where  is  he?" 

"Child,  he  sets  me  free  and  you,  nay,  and  hath 
given  me  two  of  my  friends  to  be  our  guard  back 
to  the  army." 

"Is  that  all?"  she  said. 

"Why,  what  more  could  we  ask  or  hope?  Verily, 
he  hath  been  most  generous  unto  us." 

"O,  yes,"  said  the  girl,  ,and  laughed  a  little.  "O, 
yes." 

Her  hood  was  dose  drawn  over  her  eyes  as  they 
rode  away.  She  did  not  see  Colonel  Stow  with  his 
sword  at  the  salute. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN 

THE  KING  TURNS 

WITH  his  kerchief  tight  about  his  arm  and  a 
bloody  scrap  of  his  shirt  bound  over  his  fore- 
head, Captain  Vera  came  back  to  Sir  Thomas  Fair- 
fax. He  had  hardly  told  his  tale,  amid  exclama- 
tions from  the  lieutenant  general,  before  Colonel 
Rich  was  announced,  who  entered  with  rolling 
eyes,  crying,  "Sharp  arrows  of  the  mighty !  Yea, 
very  coals  of  juniper!  O,  my  threshing  and  the 
corn  of  my  floor!" 

"Stop  your  fooling,"  the  lieutenant  general  thun- 
dered.    "Make  your  excuse!" 

"I  find,  sirrah,  you  have  your  deserts?"  quoth 
Fairfax. 

"Yea,  verily,  I  have  lien  among  the  pots.  The 
earth  mourneth  and  fadeth  away.  The  inhabi- 
tants thereof — " 

"Where  is  your  regiment?" 

"Even  as  chaff  from  the  threshing  floor  which — " 

Fairfax  raised  his  voice.  "Guard!  Guard!" 
and  when  the  sergeant  came  in  a  hurry,  "Take  his 
sword,  take  him  away." 

318 


THE    KING    TURNS  319 

"Break  their  teeth,  O  God!"  Colonel  Rich  ejacu- 
lated and  was  hurried  out. 

"Look  to  your  hurts,  Dick,"  said  Fairfax  to  his 
nephew,  and  when  he,  too,  was  gone  turned  to 
Cromwell.     "So  much  for  zeal!" 

"You  have  me  upon  the  hip,  sir." 

And  seeking  a  cool  head,  troubled  by  no  godly 
fervor,  they  pitched  upon  Colonel  Royston  and  sent 
him  with  his  dragoons  to  the  outposts,  and  slept 
sound.  Truly,  in  the  two  armies  they  could  hardly 
have  found  a  man  less  fanatic  or  more  devoted  to 
the  right  rules  of  war. 

On  the  next  day  the  minister  came  with  this  let- 
ter: 

To  the  Right  Honorable  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  Gen- 
eral of  the  Army  of  the  Parliament : 

At  Faster's  Booth,  Thursday. 
Sir — There  is  in  your  army  a  Colonel  Rich, 
which,  taking  my  men  prisoners  in  open  fight, 
threatened  after  to  hang  them.  To  which  I  an- 
swered I  would  hang  him  two  for  one.  I  have  not 
been  constrained  to  this,  having  broken  Colonel 
Rich  to-night.  This  is  to  advise  you  that  if  others 
of  your  commanders  attempt  the  like,  we  shall  an- 
swer them  .according  to  the  custom  of  war,  but  I 
have  no  fear  that  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax  will  put  us 
to  such  necessity. 

Your  Excellency's  servant, 

J.  Stow. 


320  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Then  the  minister  told  his  tale,  and  Sir  Thomas 
Fairfax  swore  and  was  not  reproved.  "By  God, 
sir,  the  man  outdoes  us  on  all  counts!"  he  cried. 
"We  are  dunces  to  him  in  tactics  and  in  chivalry. 
Who  is  he,  this  J.  Stow?" 

And  the  minister  told  what  he  knew. 

"Faith,  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  him.  It  must  be 
gall  to  a  good  soldier  to  stomach  the  King's  strate- 
gies." Fairfax  laughed  grim.  "And  I  could  use 
a  score  of  him.    Why  could  he  not  come  to  us?" 

"Sir,  I  was  granted  enlightenment  in  last  night's 
watches.  The  Lord  designs  true  men  to  fight  against 
His  cause  lest  we  that  be  His  champions  should  sink 
in  the  wanton  pride  of  our  own  natural  sin." 

Fairfax  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "By  my 
soul,  sir,  it  is  a  refreshment  to  hear  a  preacher  de- 
clare a  man  honest  who  will  not  listen  to  him.  So 
this  J.  Stow  was  a  friend  once  of  our  Colonel  Roy- 
ston,  eh  ?  And  we  have  matched  friend  for  friend. 
There  should  be  some  pretty  fighting  in  that." 

"Colonel  Royston  hath  gone  something  beyond 
me,"  said  the  minister.  His  simplicity  could  not 
explain  the  wife. 

But  fighting  between  the  friends  there  was  none. 
The  King's  army  was  hurried  suddenly  out  of 
reach.  Rupert  had  his  own  way  for  nearly  three 
days  and  made  as  far  northward  as  he  could.  His 
hope  lay  in  the  border  counties,  where  the  men  were 
a  hundred  years  or  more  behind  the  south  and  east, 
were  still  half  soldiers  in  their  daily  life  and  thought 


THE    KING    TURNS  321 

a  Puritan  mad.  He  had  not  come  much  beyond 
Daventry  when  my  Lord  Digby  brought  forth  a 
new  plan  as  clear  as  Euclid  and  the  King  listened 
and  tarried.  The  Eastern  Counties,  said  my  Lord 
Digby,  were  the  great  magazine  of  Puritan  strength. 
To  take  that  magazine  was  to  strike  the  Puritans 
with  palsy.  Why,  then,  it  was  plain  the  army  must 
march  eastward  at  once.  Quod  erat  demonstran- 
dum. 

So  the  campaign  was  changed  and  Rupert  swore 
to  the  King's  face  they  would  all  be  damned  for  it 
and  got  nearly  to  blows  with  my  Lord  Digby  and 
went  off  to  drink  himself  drunk.  The  thing  was 
plain  folly  to  a  soldier's  eye,  no  less  than  driving  a 
weak  army  against  the  strongest  rampart  of  the  foe. 
Not  Caesar  himself  could  have  snatched  success  out 
of  it.  Rupert  did  not  try.  He  threw  up  the  game. 
He  surrendered  to  despair.  The  army  was  let  go 
its  own  way,  and  soon  was  a  mere  scattered  horde 
of  brigands.  The  ingenious  Digby  had  no  power 
to  control  the  reckless  troopers,  and  Rupert  sulked 
and  soaked  in  his  tent. 

Tidings  of  it  came  to  Fairfax  and  he  made  what 
haste  he  could.  He  might  have  flung  his  cavalry 
at  the  midst  of  the  thin  cloud  of  the  foe  and  ended 
it  with  one  charge.  But  he  could  hardly  believe 
that  the  army  was  as  ill  ordered  as  his  spies  said, 
and  he  came  cautiously.  He  had  met  Rupert  fight- 
ing before,  and  he  lingered  for  more  strength.  But 
at  last,  as  Rupert  sat  by  his  wine  in  a  tavern  of 


322  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Daventry,  the  news  came  that  the  Puritan  outposts 
were  close  in  sight.  He  roused  himself  from  the 
kindly  stupor  that  eased  the  pain  of  his  despair,  and 
set  men  galloping  with  fierce  orders  to  draw  the 
army  together. 

He  was  in  time.  The  best  of  the  scattered  regi- 
ments could  still  obey  him,  and  they  mustered,  heavy 
with  spoil,  In  the  old  fortress  of  turf  that  crowns 
Borough  Hill.  The  King  was  brought  from  his 
hawking  in  Fawsley  Park,  and  with  the  Puritan 
full  in  sight  and  the  peril  of  battle  instant,  Rupert 
had  his  way  with  him.  They  should  march  north 
again.  It  was  the  last  chance,  for  they  were  out- 
numbered nearly  two  to  one.  So  they  made  off  by 
Market  Harborough.  But  Fairfax  was  following 
hard. 

In  the  twilight  of  a  summer's  evening,  Ireton 
dashed  into  the  village  of  Naseby  and  caught  a 
score  of  Rupert's  horsemen  at  ease  in  their  inn.  By 
midnight  Rupert  knew  that  their  vanguard  was 
upon  him.    There  was  no  choice  but  to  fight. 

It  was  over  high  ground,  treeless,  broken  with 
furze  and  rabbit  holes,  that  the  battle  was  set  in 
the  morning.  The  Puritans  were  posted  upon  a 
hill  whose  long  open  slope  should  spend  the  force  of 
the  fiercest  horsemen.  Their  footmen  were  hidden 
behind  the  brow;  their  horsemen  were  upon  either 
wing.  In  the  like  order,  pikemen  and  musketeers 
in  the  midst,  Rupert's  horse  on  the  right,  Sir  Mar- 
maduke  Langdale's  on  the  left,  the  royal  army  came 


THE    KING    TURNS  323 

on.     But  the  King  lingered  with  a  reserve  of  horse 
and  foot  some  way  behind  the  chance  of  battle. 

No  man  ever  denied  the  Cavaliers  a  relish  for 
fight.  They  came  with  good  heart  enough,  stead- 
fastly, like  a  moving  wall  of  men,  blue  and  green 
and  white,  pointed  with  a  gray  gleam  of  steel,  and 
as  they  marched  on  with  the  wind  that  held  their 
banners  straight  against  the  foe,  the  Puritans  came 
forward  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  a  sturdy  block  of 
scarlet.     They  were  singing: 

I  in  the  Lord  do  put  my  trust; 

How  is  it,  then,  that  ye 
Say  to  my  soul,  Flee  as  a  bird 

Unto  your  mountains  high? 

For,  lo,  the  wicked  bend  their  bow, 
Their  shafts  on  string  they  fit. 

That  those  who  upright  are  in  heart, 
They  privily  may  hit. 

Then  Rupert,  away  on  the  right  in  his  red  mon- 
tero  cap,  very  sparkish  as  was  his  habit  in  battle, 
set  his  horsemen  to  the  trot,  and  with  a  thunderous 
roar  of  "Queen  Marie!"  they  charged. 

The  June  sunshine  was  broken  with  dense  white 
clouds.  The  earth  quaked  to  the  boom  of  the  guns. 
But  Fairfax  had  no  faith  in  his  raw  artillerymen, 
and  he  was  right.  The  guns'  target  was  the  sky- 
larks, and  the  Royalist  footmen  were  within  musket 
range  before  they  had  much  to  endure. 


324  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Rupert  fell  upon  the  Puritan  horsemen  where 
Ireton,  the  commissary  general,  had  command,  and 
to  say  truth  had  not  his  men  in  hand.  For  some 
regiments  broke  ground  to  meet  the  Cavaliers  and 
fired  too  soon;  some  hung  back,  and  Rupert,  com- 
ing on  at  the  best  of  his  speed  with  squadrons  locked 
knee  to  knee,  crashed  upon  them  in  one  mass,  with 
one  storm  of  pistol  shots,  and  broke  them  utterly 
and  hurled  on  in  the  chase.  He  was  over  the  hill 
crest  with  the  Puritans  in  wild  rout  before  him;  he 
was  drunk  with  the  spirit  of  the  charge  and  mad 
himself  as  the  wildest  trooper,  as  the  youngest 
horse,  and  he  sped  on  after  the  rout  careless  of  the 
main  battle. 

Soon  all  his  men  were  scattered,  ranging  wide 
over  the  moor  in  a  hundred  little  forays.  Here  and 
there  a  colonel  cried  the  rally  and  trumpets  blared, 
but  the  most  of  them  took  no  heed.  Colonel  Stow 
got  a  grip  of  the  best  of  his  squadrons.  "By  my 
faith,  gentlemen,  this  is  the  way  to  lose  battles," 
said  he,  and  they  formed  again,  and  resting  their 
blown  horses,  came  slowly  back  to  the  main  battle. 
Not  without  pain.  There  was  a  long  hedge,  part- 
ing the  moor  from  tilled  fields.  While  Rupert 
surged  by.  Colonel  Royston,  whose  dragoons,  ill 
mounted  little  men,  could  not  stand  the  shock  of  a 
charge,  took  ground  there,  and  the  bushes  were 
lined  with  shot.  As  the  Cavaliers  came  back,  they 
were  taken  by  a  flank  fire. 

Upon  the  other  wing  the  Puritans  had  been  hap- 


THE    KING    TURNS  325 

pier.  Cromwell  held  his  troopers  till  Sir  Marma- 
duke  Langdale's  horsemen  were  weary  with  toiling 
up  hill,  then  crashed  down  on  them  and  in  one 
sharp  shock  broke  all  their  strength.  The  charge 
was  hardly  won  before  his  trumpets  were  sounding 
the  recall  and  the  sternly  schooled  troopers  turned 
from  executing  the  enemies  of  the  Lord  to  form 
upon  their  standards.  Three  regiments  Cromwell 
spared  to  press  the  pursuit;  with  the  rest  he  turned 
to  the  main  battle. 

There  was  a  mad  melee.  The  King's  musketeers 
advancing  had  waited  to  fire  but  one  volley  before 
they  fell  on  with  sword  and  butt.  They  charged 
with  the  pikemen  and  the  lines  were  locked  in  con- 
flict. With  blind  hacking  and  hewing,  with  sheer 
thrusting,  breast  upon  breast  in  the  press,  the  reek- 
ing, panting  companies  strove,  and  the  fortune  of 
the  fight  swayed  to  and  fro.  In  the  full  of  the  gay 
June  sunshine  they  were  wrapped  with  an  acrid 
cloud  of  powder  smoke  and  dust  and  the  reeling 
standards  rose  out  of  it  weirdly.  Skippon  was 
struck  down  in  the  midst.  The  left  of  the  Puritans 
gave  round  and  there  the  King's  men  flung  them- 
selves upon  the  second  line.  If  Rupert  had  been  at 
hand,  Naseby  fight  could  have  had  another  end. 
But  for  Rupert,  there  were  only  the  few  squadrons 
with  Colonel  Stow,  and  though  they  charged  their 
best,  they  were  not  weight  enough  to  turn  the  issue. 
While  they  drew  off,  weary  and  spent,  Colonel  Roy- 
ston  mounted  his  dragoons  and  ventured  them  upon 


326  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

the  broken  ranks.  They  made  no  bad  charge  of 
it,  and  Colonel  Stow  brought  only  a  remnant  to 
where  the  King  lingered  with  the  reserve. 

Before  that  Cromwell  had  come  upon  the  infantry. 
Hardly  supporting  an  equal  fight,  the  King's  men 
were  in  no  case  to  bear  the  shock  of  a  hundred  score 
Ironside  troopers.  Through  the  wall  of  pikes  be- 
fore them  they  could  not  break.  Against  the  swarm 
of  heavy  horsemen  they  could  not  stand.  They 
were  smitten  like  corn  under  the  scythe.  Whole 
regiments  were  struck  with  panic  and  cast  down 
their  arms  and  screamed  for  quarter,  until  but  one 
stood  unbroken.  Then  Fairfax,  who  had  hacked 
and  hewed  like  a  common  trooper  all  the  fight 
through,  came  with  his  regiment  upon  their  front. 
Cromwell  charged  them  from  the  rear.  The  sturdy 
ranks  went  down  in  ruin.  The  army  was  all  un- 
done.    The  King  had  no  footmen  left. 

And  Rupert?  Rupert's  horsemen  were  over- 
spread half  a  dozen  miles,  each  little  party  hunting 
its  own  prey.  Rupert  himself,  with  not  much  more 
than  a  troop,  bore  down  on  Naseby  village  a  mile 
away,  where  Fairfax's  train  of  baggage  waited. 
Then  the  captain  of  the  baggage  guard,  seeing  one 
in  habit  like  the  general,  in  a  red  montero,  as  the 
general  had,  took  him  for  Fairfax,  and  rode  out 
to  ask  the  fortune  of  the  day.  "So  well  that  I'll 
give  you  quarter,"  cried  Rupert.  The  Puritan  with 
an  objurgation  out  of  scripture  galloped  back  to  his 
men  and  they  welcomed  Rupert  with  a  volley.     He 


THE    KING    TURNS  327 

had  not  enough  men  to  hand  for  a  charge.  So  at 
last  he  drew  rein  and  thought  of  a  rally.  It  was  a 
life  too  late.  When  his  horsemen  began  to  straggle 
back  into  the  battle  there  was  but  one  army  left. 

And  the  King?  When  Cromwell  turned  upon  the 
footmen,  the  King  had  still  his  reserves  to  cast 
into  the  fight,  had  still  the  squadrons  that  had  won 
back  with  Colonel  Stow,  shattered  but  daring  yet. 
There  was  more  than  one  man  about  him  who  cried 
with  Colonel  Stow,  "Charge,  sir,  i'  God's  name, 
charge  for  your  cause!"  and  the  little  brigade  was 
ready.  King  Charles  rode  out  to  share  their  des- 
perate fortune,  to  dare  for  his  own  doom.  But  as 
he  came,  he  saw  on  the  hill  above  Cromwell's  troop- 
ers storm  deathly  In  the  charge,  and  he  faltered. 
Then  a  faithful  courtier,  my  Lord  Carnwath, 
snatched  his  bridle,  crying,  "Will  you  go  to  your 
death?"  and  the  King,  whose  army  was  smitten  be- 
fore his  eyes,  gave  himself  to  a  savior.  "Files  by 
the  right!"  cried  my  Lord  Carnwath,  and  the  King's 
guard  bore  him  away. 

Colonel  Stow  looked  after  him  with  a  crooked 
smile.  "There  goes  the  worst  friend  the  King  ever 
had,"  he  said. 

So  through  the  fall  of  that  summer  day  the  King 
rode  hard  in  flight,  and  behind  him  men  who  cared 
more  for  his  honor  than  he,  spent  themselves  to  save 
him.  While  the  King,  scathless  of  any  mark  of  fight,, 
sat  down  to  dine  in  Leicester,  some  few  scattered 
troops  of  his  horse  turned  and  turned  again  in  des- 


328  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

perate  charge  to  stay  the  surge  of  Cromwell's  pur- 
suit. Utterly  weary,  bleeding  and  out  of  heart,  they 
hurled  themselves  upon  the  Ironside  ranks,  desper- 
ate in  their  soldierly  honor  as  the  Puritans  in  their 
faith.  They  did  their  part.  They  saved  their  King 
while  they  cursed  him.  But  when  night  fell  there 
was  hardly  a  man  of  them  could  call  to  his  fellow. 

Reeling  in  the  saddle  of  a  stumbling  horse, 
Colonel  Stow  drew  rein  in  the  dark.  He  had  no 
man  left  to  company  him.  All  his  regiment  were 
spent  and  dead.  He  staggered  to  the  shelter  of  a 
hedge  and  lay  with  the  blood  stiff  upon  his  wounds. 

In  a  comfortable  chamber  at  Loughborough,  King 
Charles  wrote  a  letter  to  his  wife  complaining  of 
the  conduct  of  his  army. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-EIGHT 

LUCINDA  IS  AGAIN  AN  INSPIRATION 

SLOWLY,  by  devious  roads,  the  King  and  his 
guard  won  back  to  Oxford.  Thither,  difficultly, 
came  a  thousand  or  two  of  desperate,  broken  men, 
and  a  while  after,  the  bulk  of  Rupert's  horse.  Sir 
Thomas  Fairfax  concentrated  upon  Thame,  and 
made  ready  for  a  siege.  Save  in  the  very  clash  of 
battle,  he  was  always  leisurely.  In  truth  there  was 
little  need  of  haste.  The  war  was  fought  and  lost. 
The  end  was  sure.  Only  a  few  ingenious  minds, 
like  my  Lord  Digby,  could  think  other.  And  no 
men  ever  called  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax  ingenious. 

Colonel  Royston  was  in  a  thriving  way.  He  came 
out  of  the  battle  with  no  small  repute  and  from  the 
pursuit  with  no  small  fortune.  He  had  a  Croat's 
nose  for  plunder.  The  Royalists  had  bled  the  mid- 
land towns  white,  and  Colonel  Royston  took  the 
profit  of  it. 

But  he  came  back  to  win  small  thanks  of  Lu- 
cinda.  She  endured  him  and  she  made  him  suffer. 
He  could  always  conquer  her  in  a  storm  of  passion. 
She  could  always  make  him  smart  with  her  con- 

329 


330  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

tempt.  "Ha,  madame  wife,  do  I  not  content  you  ?" 
he  cried  as  he  held  her  white  in  his  arms. 

"What  is  there  in  you  to  content  a  woman?"  she 
panted. 

That  was  the  key  of  their  marriage.  If  it  be 
victory  to  make  a  man  despise  himself,  Lucinda 
conquered.  In  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  had  sold 
himself  cheap.  He  had  given  honor  and  the  quiet 
mind  for  a  gust  of  pleasure  like  a  weak  girl.  But 
that  was  the  lesser  pain.  It  irked  most  that  he 
could  not  subdue  her,  that  he  could  not  make  her 
do  him  service  or  respect.  She  dared  treat  him  as 
a  man  of  no  manhood,  and  she  could  have  done 
nothing  to  sting  his  fierce  heart  more  keenly.  But 
she  got  little  joy  of  it.  She  was  not,  indeed,  of  the 
women  who  can  feel  shame.  Her  will,  her  passion 
of  self,  was  too  strong  for  her  to  convict  herself  of 
any  evil.  She  could  have  sunk  to  the  coarsest  sins 
and  known  no  remorse.  Her  desires  ever  held  her 
absolved.  But  she  had  failed  of  the  keenest  passion 
of  her  life,  and  it  gnawed  still  at  her  heart.  To 
the  end,  I  think,  she  loved  Colonel  Stow  after  her 
fashion.  When  she  was  crushed  helpless  in  Roy- 
ston's  arms,  all  her  being  ached  and  throbbed  for 
that  first  lost  caress.     She,  too,  had  her  reward. 

It  was  on  a  thunderous  July  afternoon  that  Roy- 
ston  strode  into  their  lodging  in  Thame,  with  a 
"Well,  wife,"  (that  was  the  name  that  hurt  her 
most)  "I  am  the  lieutenant  general's  dear  brother 
in  Christ." 


LUCINDA  AGAIN  AN   INSPIRATION    331 

"And  that  is  all  you  are  like  to  be,"  said  Lu- 
cinda. 

"What  more  of  a  husband  could  you  want?" 

"I  wonder  what  less  I  could  have,"  she  laughed. 

"You  take  your  blunder  with  an  ill  grace,  madame 
wife." 

"O,  content  you.  I  like  to  be  your  mirror.  You 
writhe  when  you  see  yourself.  It  is  only  then  you 
please  me." 

Royston  broke  an  oath  at  her.  "By  God,  what  I 
am  you  have  made  me."  She  leaned  her  chin  on  her 
hand  and  looked  at  him  with  steady,  scornful  eyes. 
"And  what  more  do  you  want?"  he  cried.  "You 
came  to  me  greedy  with  desire.  You  have  had  your 
fill  of  that.  You  lack  nothing  of  rich  eating  and 
soft  lying.  They  are  my  jewels  on  your  bosom. 
You  have  no  soul  for  more.  What  more  are  you 
worth?" 

She  laughed.  "O,  I  knew  you  were  brute  when 
I  ventured  with  you,  but  I  thought  you  brute  enough 
to  be  a  master  of  others.  And  what  are  you  ?  Bah, 
there  is  no  force  in  you.  You  are  of  the  herd  that 
follow  the  bell  wether.  You  are  but  one  of  a  score  | 
of  crop-eared,  canting  knaves,  a  common  thing  to 
be  tossed  aside  when  the  war  is  done." 

"I  am  not  so  easily  set  aside,  madame,"  said 
Royston,  glowering  at  her.  "You  should  know  that. 
And  mark  you,  there  be  scarce  two  men  in  this  army 
can  hope  for  better  than  I.  Fairfax  is  a  spent  shot 
— a  good  drill  master,  a  good  squadron  captain,  no 


332  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

more.  The  man  with  a  grip  is  the  lieutenant  gen- 
eral, and  his  day  is  dawning  now.  There  is  but 
Ireton  stands  as  well  with  him  as  I — " 

"O,  yes,  you  were  born  for  an  underling,"  cried 
Lucinda.  "Good  fellow,  ambition  no  more  and  you 
shall  attain." 

Royston  glowered  at  her  and  she  laughed.  He 
strode  to  her  and  gripped  her  shoulder  in  his  dark 
hand.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  steady  eyes,  but 
the  laugh  froze  on  her  lips.  He  snatched  her  from 
her  chair  and  crushed  her  to  his  breast.  "By 
Heaven,"  he  said  thickly,  "if  I  am  an  underling, 
you  shall  be  lower  still."  He  held  her  so  till  she 
was  fighting  for  breath,  then  set  her  roughly  down 
and  strode  out.  .  .  .  She  heard  the  harsh  ring 
of  his  laugh. 

So  they  lived. 

It  was  some  while  later,  when  the  army  was 
ready  to  close  upon  Oxford,  that  a  stranger  came 
to  her  in  the  twilight.  He  was  peacefully  attired, 
like  a  comfortable  trader,  but  he  had  something  of 
a  swagger.  Lucinda  saw  a  dark,  lean,  scarred  face. 
"Ha,  Madame  Weston,"  says  he  lightly.  "To-day 
to  thee,  to-morrow  to  me." 

"You  mistake  me,  sir,"  said  Lucinda  coldly. 

"Not  I,  madame.  I  am  of  your  own  tribe — a. 
bird  of  prey." 

"You  are  an  insolent,  sir,"  and  she  rose. 

"O,  madame,  do  me  reason.     I  would  make  you 


LUCINDA  AGAIN  AN   INSPIRATION    333 

phrases  if  I  despised  you.  I  think  you  are  strong 
enough  for  the  truth." 

She  hesitated  and  was  lost.  "What  do  you  want 
of  me,  sir?" 

Colonel  Strozzi  sat  down  at  his  ease.  "What  do 
you  want  most  in  the  world?  I'll  give  it  you  at  a 
price." 

Lucinda  laughed.     "So  will  the  devil,  they  say." 

"Strozzi  sells  cheaper." 

"And  what  is  your  price,  sir?" 

"Your  bel  ami,  Colonel  Royston." 

Lucinda  looked  at  him  curiously.  "I  think  you 
can  not  know,  sir,  that  I  am  Colonel  Royston's  wife." 

"O,  has  he  married  you?"  said  Strozzi  with  plain 
surprise.  "I  suppose  they  have  prejudices  here." 
He  looked  at  her  with  a  grim  smile.  "Which  most 
requires  my  sympathy,  madame?" 

"You  are  impudent,  sir." 

"It  is  not  my  profession  to  be  decent,  madame. 
Well — though  you  are  his  wife,  I  can  believe  you 
command  him" —  he  looked  her  lithe  form  over 
with  an  insolent,  appraising  eye,  and  laughed — 
"that  is  all  I  want." 

"And  what  do  you  want  of  him?" 

Colonel  Strozzi  smiled  and  tapped  his  teeth.  "I 
can  pay,"  he  said.  "Nor  we'll  not  quarrel  for  the 
figure,  neither." 

"O,  you  are  vague  as  Grantorto  in  the  romance*" 

"A  woman  of  your  habit  might  drink  deep  of 


334  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

life  for  a  five  thousand  pound."  He  watched  her 
keenly. 

But  she  laughed.  "And  a  man  of  your  habit  sell 
himself  for  a  tester.     What  then?" 

"Why,  madame,  your  virtuous  husband  is  trust- 
ed. So  he  is  worth  a  price.  He  commands  the  dra- 
gooners  and  they  have  the  outposts.  His  price,  you 
may  say,  is  doubled.  O,  I  am  frank  with  you." 
Tapping  his  teeth  again,  he  watched  her  from  under 
level  eyebrows. 

"Then,  go  on,"  said  Lucinda,  her  eyes  glistening, 
a  smile  about  her  lips. 

Strozzi  considered  some  while  first.  "My  dear,  if 
you  were  a  man  I  might  be  afraid  of  you." 

"Believe  me,  you  have  more  reason  now,"  Lu- 
cinda laughed. 

"Not  a  whit,  pretty  one.  A  woman  is  cheap 
steel.  You  can  not  bear  the  edge  of  a  man.  You  go 
to  flinders  at  a  hard  parry." 

"Try!" 

"I  do  not  need.  Your  profit  is  with  me,  and  you'll 
know  it."  He  laughed.  "Faith,  what  a  team  we 
had  made  together,  you  and  L  Fit  for  the  devil's 
own  driving!" 

"O,  sir,  you  do  me  too  much  honor.  Nor  he  nor 
another  drives  me." 

Strozzi  grinned.  "I  would  try  my  own  hand  for 
a  crown.  But  this  is  woman's  folly.  To  my  affair 
now.  Madame,  this  army  of  yours  has  too  good 
generals.     We  could  do  well  without  them.     There 


LUCINDA  AGAIN  AN   INSPIRATION    335 

must  be  times  when  they  meet  together  o'  nights 
for  a  council.  All  we  want  of  your  bel  ami,  is  to  let 
a  company  of  honest  men  through  his  outposts.  And 
it  is  worth — ah — it  is  worth  a  five  thousand  pound." 

"Then  it  is  not  worth  while,"  said  Lucinda. 

"Is  it  not?  Think  of  it."  Colonel  Strozzi  rose. 
"I  will  wait  on  you  in  the  morning.  You'll  need  a 
night  to  work  on  my  dear  Royston.  I  kiss  your 
hands  and  your  feet."     And  he  was  gone. 

Lucinda  sat  in  the  deepening  dark,  curled  to- 
gether, thinking.  Colonel  Strozzi  did  her  wrong. 
Her  mind  outmatched  his. 

Royston  came  in  with  a  clatter  and  shouted  for 
lights.  She  stirred  in  her  chair.  "What,  wife!" 
he  groped  for  her,  gave  her  a  careless  kiss  and  felt 
her  lips  answer.  "How  now?  Here  is  tender  de- 
votion !    Have  you  the  vapors^  madame?" 

"I  think  you  are  a  boor  in  grain.  And  yet,  good 
lack,  I  like  you." 

"I  know.  It  is  my  chief  shame.  Ha!"  the  can- 
dles came  and  they  were  both  dazzled.  "We  are 
creatures  of  darkness,  madame  wife." 

She  laughed.  "I'll  lighten  yours,  sir,"  and  she 
started  up  and  stood,  her  hands  behind  her,  lean- 
ing a  little  towards  him,  a  vivid  temptation. 

Royston  folded  his  arms.  "Do  you  think  I  was 
made  to  fall?" 

"No,  I  was,"  she  said  softly,  and  softly  stole  to 
him  and  put  her  arms  about  his  great  strength  and 
nestled  against  him. 


336  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  Royston  roughly. 

"You !"  she  whispered  and  laughed.  "Yes,  you 
as  you  will  be!  O,  I  have  ached  that  you  should 
rest  one  of  the  herd.  But  the  chance  has  come  now. 
Great  things !  Ah,  I  have  trusted  you  with  all  I 
am.  Is  it  not?"  Her  fingers  closed  nervously  on 
his. 

"Prithee,  madame,  be  less  romantic." 

"O,  I  can  be  clear  as  your  head.  So,  sir — "  she 
thrust  him  daintily  back  to  a  chair  and  set  herself 
over  against  him.     "Admire  me!" 

"I  never  engaged  to  that." 

"The  more  pleasure  to  make  you.  Well,  I  have 
had  a  visitor." 

"I  am  not  jealous,  madame." 

"A  fascinating  fellow,  one  Strozzi."  Colonel 
Royston  straightened  his  back.  "He  has  the  good 
taste  to  want  you,  sir." 

Royston  laughed.  "Faith,  madame,  you  are  too 
prolific.     One  treason  may  pay;  twins  never  did." 

"Have  I  spoken  of  treason?" 

"You  spoke  of  Strozzi.  He  has  corrupted  half 
Europe.  And  would  corrupt  you,  too,  if  it  were 
not  done  already.  By  Heaven,  madame,  if  you  have 
mixed  my  name  in  any  disloyalty,  I  will  denounce 
you  like  a  common  spy." 

"O,  sir,  I  was  sure  of  your  affection.  Neverthe- 
less, you'll  hear  me  out.  He  amused  me,  your  friend 
Strozzi." 

Royston  shrugged.     "Birds  of  a  feather." 


LUCINDA   AGAIN   AN    INSPIRATION     337 

"You  know  me  better  than  that,"  and  she  laughed. 
"I  am  something  more  than  Colonel  Strozzi.  I 
think  we  may  surprise  him,  you  and  I." 

"Go  on  with  your  surprises,  madame." 

"Why,  sir,  he  talked  of  a  five  thousand.  And  I 
think  he  would  come  to  more  than  that." 

Colonel  Royston  put  up  his  eyebrows.  Money 
was  four  times  more  worth  then  than  now.  It  was 
in  his  nature  to  love  it  for  its  own  sake  as  well  as 
for  power.  "This  is  some  notable  villainy,"  said 
he,  and  she  watched  his  eyes. 

"I  do  not  know  if  I  saw  it  all  the  way,"  said  Lu- 
cinda  slowly.  "But  I  am  not  sure  it  is  your  profit 
to  serve  him." 

"What!     Madame  Lucinda  virtuous?" 

"O,  sir,  Madame  Lucinda  is  not  a  fool.  Hark 
you,  then,  here  is  his  offer.  On  a  night  when  the 
generals  hold  a  council,  make  it  safe  for  a  party  to 
come  through  the  outposts  and  slay  them.  For 
which  he  will  pay  his  five  thousand  pound,  or  more, 
as  I  think.     I  had  not  thought  it  worth  so  much." 

"Strozzi  would  not  show  you  his  whole  hand,  my 
dear,"  said  Royston  with  a  laugh,  and  chin  on 
hand  meditated.  .  .  .  "Humph,  it  can  be  no 
great  mystery.  With  Cromwell  and  old  Skippon 
down,  we  should  make  an  ill  show  against  a  strong 
camisado.  And  the  King  has  men  enough  to  make 
one  still.  We  stamped  his  footmen  out  at  Naseby, 
but  the  best  of  his  horse  won  away.  That  will  be 
the  design.     Strozzi  and  a  batch  of  bravos  put  the 


338  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

generals  down.  Then  Rupert  breaks  his  horse  on 
us.  By  God,  we  should  be  rabble.  He  would  ride 
over  us." 

"Is  it  worth  a  five  thousand  pound?"  said  Lu- 
cinda  quietly. 

Royston,  staring  at  her,  rose  heavily  and  began 
to  pace  the  room.  She  watched  him  close  and  keen. 
She  misprized  him,  as  Strozzi  had  misprized  her. 
He  saw  the  whole  chance  of  the  affair  in  a  moment. 
With  the  five  thousand — and  there  might  be  more 
in  it  with  care — he  could  make  a  brave  figure  in 
half  a  score  of  countries.  The  thing  was  «asy 
enough  to  do.  He  could  manage  it  so  that  there 
should  be  no  suspicion  of  him.  Was  it  ugly  ?  Was 
it  too  dirty  for  a  soldier?  Ay,  a  year  ago  he  could 
have  answered  that  .  .  .  Lucinda  heard  him 
laugh.  It  seemed  a  little  late  for  foibles.  He  had 
been  false  to  the  only  clean  affection  of  his  life.  He 
had  no  more  pride  in  honor.  He  had  nothing  left 
to  follow  but  greed.  And  for  what  men  said — 
why,  Walter  Butler,  Judas  of  the  man  that  made 
him,  ruffled  it  with  the  best  at  Vienna.  So,  then, 
suppose  it  done,  and  Rupert's  horsemen  driving  the 
Puritans  like  sheep.  What  remained  for  Colonel 
Royston  in  the  rout?  He  had  seen  too  much,  he 
knew  men  too  well,  to  believe  the  war  might  be 
ended  so.  One  night  of  murder  would  not  tame 
the  Puritan  temper.  The  struggle  would  go  on  even 
through  despair.  In  the  wild  turmoil  of  it,  what 
a  chance  for  a  man  who  could  lead!     Nay — 


LUCINDA  AGAIN  AN   INSPIRATION    339 

He  checked  suddenly.  He  saw  the  vivid  light  in 
Lucinda's  eyes  that  dwelt  on  him.  He  strode  to  her 
and  laid  a  rough  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "Madame 
wife,  what  was  your  design?" 

"I  had  thought  your  Strozzi  might  serve  us." 

"Ay,  you  would  be  of  the  devil's  side.     How?" 

"By  cheating  himself,  sir,"  said  Lucinda  and 
laughed.  "O,  you  are  not  very  clever,  you  soldiers. 
Shall  I  ever  make  you  great,  I  wonder?" 

"Ay,  in  hell.     Speak  out!" 

"Why,  then,"  her  voice  was  low  and  happy,  her 
eyes  shone  delight.  "Let  Colonel  Strozzi  come  and 
kill.  What  hinders  for  you  to  come  down  on  Colonel 
Strozzi?  The  generals  are  slain,  but  you  have 
avenged  them.  There  is  an  attack,  but  you  have 
beat  it  off.  You  are  left  the  best  general  in  all  the 
army,  you  with  fame  and  power  and  something  of 
money  withal.  Sure,  sir,  this  Strozzi  is  a  kindly 
gentleman." 

"And  you  are  the  devil's  daughter,"  said  Roy- 
ston  with  a  grim  smile.  Then  he  rested  his  head 
on  his  hand  and  stared  at  the  ground  and  she  heard 
him  muttering.  .  .  .  Do  him  justice.  It  was 
not  the  design  for  a  man  of  little  soul.  There  was 
something  of  devilish  courage  in  it,  and  the  confi- 
dence of  the  strong.  By  the  tolerant  ethic  of  his 
day  and  his  trade,  the  thing  was  less  vile  far  than 
to  this  nice  age  of  peace.  It  was  traitorous  even  to 
him,  but  at  least  there  was  nothing  mean  in  it.  He 
kept  no  retreat  for  himself.     He  set  his  own  life  on 


340  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

the  edge  of  danger.  But  for  that,  the  thing  had 
hardly  allured  him.  It  was  no  safe,  no  easy  task 
to  manage  the  murder  and  the  neat  slaughter  of 
the  murderers,  to  grip  the  army  in  an  hour  of  panic 
and  make  order  and  break  Rupert's  charge.  Roy- 
ston  knew  all  the  danger  of  it  better  than  any  man 
now.  Even  the  affair  of  Eger,  when  on  the  windy 
February  night  the  Irish  made  an  end  of  Wallen- 
stein,  was  hardly  more  perilous.  And  he  had  much 
to  lose.  If  he  bade  Strozzi  go  hang,  if  he  stood 
faithful  to  his  general,  he  had  a  notable  place  sure. 
Not  first  indeed.  While  Cromwell  lived,  he  knew 
well  enough,  he  had  no  chance  of  that ;  whether  the 
man  were  hypocrite  or  honest  fanatic — and  Royston 
had  moments  of  doubt — he  could  commend  himself 
to  the  Puritans  like  no  other.  There  was  Ireton, 
too.  Royston's  eager  temper  and  that  keen,  silent 
mind  paid  each  other  an  equal  tribute  of  distrust. 
Still,  he  could  win  and  keep  a  place  not  far  below 
the  first.  It  was  no  small  thing  in  a  land  where  the 
army  must  rule.  He  staked  all  that  and  life  be- 
side on  the  chance  of  a  chance. 

But  if  he  won !  It  might  be  hard  to  snatch  the 
mastery  of  that  army,  but  if  he  had  it,  no  man 
should  set  him  aside.  The  Puritans  liked  him  well. 
He  could  be  a  savory  member  with  the  best.  They 
would  follow  him  through  death.  That  army! 
What  a  tool  for  a  strong  hand !  The  stanch  yeo- 
man breed,  wrought  with  discipline,  edged  with 
fanatic  faith  !     The  vellow  coats  of  Gustavus  were 


LUCINDA   AGAIN   AN   INSPIRATION     341 

no  better.  He  would  speedily  make  an  end  of  that 
fools'  war.  He  had  as  good  an  eye  as  Cromwell's 
for  a  fight  arid  for  Cromwell's  rashness  and  waste 
of  men,  a  long  prenticeship  in  arms.  Soon  the 
army  must  be  master  of  all  England,  and  if  he 
ruled  the  army — what  end,   what  end  to  power? 

He  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  He  rose  and 
strode  across  the  room  and  looked  out  at  the  dark 
a  long  while.  Then  he  turned  to  Lucinda.  "When 
is  Strozzi  to  come  again,  child?" 

Lucinda  ran  to  him  laughing.  She  caught  his 
hands,  she  leaned  toward  him,  giving  all  herself. 
"You  are  alive!     You  are  alive!" 

Royston  looked  down  at  the  eager  face  that 
strained  up  to  him.  With  a  sudden  passionate  force 
he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  crushing  her  on  his  breast, 
lifting  her,  holding  her  to  his  will.  And  she  clung 
to  him  and  her  lips  were  hungry.  They  had  their 
hour. 

So  in  the  morning,  when  Strozzi  came,  he  found 
Lucinda  ready  to  haggle.  She  did  it  well.  Strozzi 
covenanted  to  pay  three  thousand  pounds  before  the 
thing  was  done  and  four  thousand  after.  She  got 
a  ruby  coronet  beside.  He  was  very  well  content. 
It  occurred  to  his  Lombard  mind  that  the  first  three 
thousand  were  all  he  would  ever  pay.  And  Lucinda 
was  of  just  the  same  opinion.  Strozzi  went  off  to  a 
quiet  tavern  by  Crendon  and  there  Colonel  Royston 
met  him  and  made  a  plan. 


342  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Royston  came  back  to  his  lodging  well  content, 
and  lifted  her  out  of  her  chair  to  be  kissed.  "O, 
you  are  greedy,"  she  said,  resisting  a  little. 

"Why,  madame  wife  has  made  a  good  bargain. 
She  must  get  guerdon  for  it.     So.     So." 

Lucinda  turned  her  head  for  his  greedy  kisses, 
listless.  There  was  a  shadow  in  her  eyes.  His  rude 
desire  made  her  remember  dead  hopes  and  joys  of 
waking  maidenhood. 

"A  good  bargain,  has  she  not?"  said  Royston. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-NINE 

THE  KING  LOOKS  THROUGH  HIS  FINGERS 

"T  UD,"  said  Molly,  the  cake  girl,  "yo"  ^oo^^  like  a 
-■— v     last  year's  apple." 

"I  feel  as  sound,"  said  Alcibiade.  The  cheeks 
once  ruddy  and  full  were  fallen  lusterless  and  shriv- 
eled. 

"I  hate  men,"  said  Molly  vehemently  as  she 
thrust  him  into  a  chair  and  put  a  tray  of  gridle  cakes 
under  his  nose. 

"It's  a  moral  emotion,"  said  Alcibiade  with  his 
mouth  full. 

"If  there  were  no  men  there  would  be  no  wars," 
Molly  explained. 

"And  equally  no  women.  Behold  the  two  delights 
of  life  abolished." 

"Am  I  like  a  war?"  said  Molly,  her  arms  akimbo. 

"No,  my  dear,  you  are  too  terrific.  Moreover, 
wars  have  an  end,  and  you  never  will." 

"You  are  a  pig,"  said  Molly  rather  tearfully,  and 
indeed  had  some  excuse  in  his  manners  with  her 
cakes. 

Alcibiade  laughed.  "Every  good  woman  has  a 
thousand   children.      O,   understand   me — in   good 

343 


344  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

deeds  that  never  die.  So  she  is  many  times  immor- 
tal. With  reason  she  appals  me.  Consider,  Molly, 
It  is  a  responsibility  to  have  no  end." 

"You  are  a  goose,"  said  Molly.  "And  where  is 
my  ardent  lover?" 

"I  am  the  whole  ark  of  the  late  Noah.  And 
want  as  much  to  eat.  But  for  the  .amorous  Mat- 
thieu-Marc — alas,  poor  gentleman!"  Alcibiade 
shook  his  head. 

"Good  lack,  he  is  not  dead?" 

"Nay,  mademoiselle.  Only  his  trousers.  Even 
in  this  moment  he  puts  a  patch  on  them  for  your 
sake.     So  much  does  he  honor  his  beloved." 

"I  like  his  way,"  said  Molly,  gurgling. 

"It  is  at  least  decent,"  Alcibiade  agreed. 

"Bo,"  said  Molly,  pursuing  the  simile  of  the 
goose.     "And  how  is  your  master?" 

Alcibiade  became  serious  in  the  middle  of  a 
mouthful.  "Molly,  if  one  man  could  save  an  army, 
that  man  would  have  done  it.  Grand  Diett!"  he 
spread  his  arms  to  heaven.  "My  colonel,  he  is  my 
hero,  I  have  seen  him  magnificent  in  victory,  but 
I  should  have  not  known  his  majestic,  glorious 
splendors  if  I  had  not  seen  him  in  defeat." 

"What  is  he  doing  now?" 

"It  is  probable,"  said  Alcibiade,  returning  to 
earth,  "that  he  is  smoking  his  pipe." 

In  clouds  of  Virginia,  Colonel  Stow  was  thought- 
ful. The  queer  futility  of  his  life  occupied  him. 
It  seemed  that  he  had  been  woven  of  vain  desires. 


THE    KING    LOOKS  345 

What  his  soul  chose  to  seek  was  ever  proved  mock- 
ing fantasy.  He  set  his  all  on  a  woman  and  she 
turned  to  dust  in  his  arms.  He  toiled  for  honor 
and  power  and  when  he  earned  them  his  cause  had 
none  to  give.  He  fought  to  the  edge  of  death  for 
a  King  that  proved  himself  base.  Nay,  the  curse 
of  waste  was  even  on  those  who  were  linked  with 
him.  He  made  a  rabble  into  a  regiment  of  good 
soldiers  only  to  fling  them  away  in  a  fool's  battle; 
made  men  of  them  to  make  them  food  for  death. 

He  did  not  rave  against  fate  or  curse  himself 
or  expend  lamentations.  That  was  not  in  his  tem- 
per. With  a  quiet,  melancholy  courage  he  thought 
out  all  the  failures.  Still  he  had  lost  faith  in  him- 
self. He  could  feel  his  own  strength  still.  If  the 
mad  battle  of  Naseby  were  to  fight  again,  he  could 
pray  to  do  no  better.  Through  all  the  folly  of  the 
war  he  took  no  blame.  He  had  never  played  him- 
self false.  .  .  .  Ay,  it  was  the  wrong  cause. 
He  had  chosen  recklessly  as  a  boy  for  a  light  wom- 
an's sake.  Well — there  w,as  no  profit  in  regrets  for 
that.  With  all  falling  on  ruin,  a  man  had  no  more 
right  to  repent  than  to  desert.  Honor  asked  a 
whole  heart  for  the  last  desperate  fight.  If  it  was 
fate  never  to  win,  a  man  might  fail  worthily.  The 
King — the  King  who  would  not  die  for  his  own 
cause — it  was  quaint  matter  for  a  man's  devotion. 
Well.  For  the  silliest  faith  a  man  might  find  de- 
cent death. 

On  which  meditations  intruded  a  letter.     It  was 


346  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

the  most  polished  note  from  my  Lord  Digby,  beg- 
ging the  high  favor  of  a  word.  Colonel  Stow  went 
with  some  curiosity.  He  did  not  love  my  Lord  Dig- 
by  and  had  imparted  his  affection. 

Arrived  in  the  anteroom  of  my  Lord  Digby's 
elegant  lodging  in  Tom  quad,  he  apprehended  the 
honor  more  exactly.  He  made  one  of  a  notable 
company  of  scoundrels.  My  Lord  Digby,  it  ap- 
peared, had  been  into  the  highways  and  byways, 
looking  for  filth  and  compelled  it  to  come  in. 
Colonel  Stow  surveyed  them,  smiling,  and  they  him 
with  some  surprise.  He  found  amongst  them  the 
most  noted  rake-hells  of  the  army.  "Vaughan  and 
Price  and  O'Connor!  Good  morrow,  fair  gentles. 
Tom  Blood  and  Geoghegan !  Sure,  I  have  turned 
into  Heaven  by  mistake.  We  only  lack  Strozzi  to 
make  the  angelic  choir  complete." 

They  snarled  at  him  sulphurously. 

Colonel  Stow  yawned.  "You  are  so  stale.  I 
think  you  are  all  as  old  as  the  devil  and  as  dull." 

They  made  more  noise.  So  that  my  Lord  Digby 
was  disturbed  and  sent  a  pale  faced,  clerkly  secre- 
tary who  rebuked  them  shrilly  and  called  them  all 
within.  A  result  which  happily  accorded  with 
Colonel  Stow's  intentions.  He  was  left  thoughtful. 
He  had  no  esteem  for  my  Lord  Digby,  and  yet  did 
not  conceive  him  as  a  negotiator  for  bravos.  In  a 
little  while  the  respectable  troop  came  out,  hats 
acock,  swaggering,  whispering,  creatures  of  much 
importance.     Colonel  Stow  bowed  to  them  politely 


THE    KING    LOOKS  347 

and  wished  them  a  pleasant  journey  underground. 
My  Lord  Digby  had  before  him  a  letter  in  Ital- 
ian, as  thus: 

Illustrious — Muster  my  good  boys  for  the  20th. 
All  goes  well.  Our  friend  is  bit.  He  is  caught.  He 
devises  marvelous  well.  The  enemy  moved  to-day 
from  Thame  and  will  halt  at  Albury.  Wheatley 
is  the  next  stage,  where  the  good  lord  general  lies 
at  Holton  House.  Our  friend  will  let  him  have  such 
tidings  as  may  make  him  call  a  council  on  the 
Wednesday  night  and  set  the  outposts  so  by  Forest- 
hill  that  our  good  boys  may  come  through  them. 
Let  them  muster  beyond  the  lines  an  hour  after  sun- 
down. I'll  be  with  them.  Give  the  Palatine  his  or- 
ders to  march  an  hour  after  that,  to  be  upon  Holton 
an  hour  after  midnight  and  fall  on  when  he  hears 
pistol  shots.  And  the  devil  prosper  the  work!  It 
has  cost  a  four  thousand  pound  for  our  friend.  He 
looks  for  as  much  more  after.  Put  your  tongue  in 
your  cheek.     Salutations. 

Strozzi. 

Colonel  Strozzi,  you  see,  made  his  private  profit. 
Now,  what  might  have  come  of  this  pretty  plot, 
where  every  man  was  false  to  every  man,  is  pleas- 
ant matter  for  guessing,  but  the  precise  issue  was 
determined  by  the  ingenuity  of  my  Lord  Digby. 
Jermyn  likened  him  to  a  terrier,  because  he  could 
let  neither  well  nor  ill  alone,  and  so  far  as  he  had 


348  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

a  character,  there  it  is.  The  plan — leave  Its  ethics 
out  of  the  account — the  plan  was  ingenious  enough 
and  the  success  of  its  kind  in  Germany  gave  good 
hope.  But  my  Lord  Digby,  having  built  it,  must 
needs  meddle  with  it.  So  having  trusted  Colonel 
Strozzi  with  the  King's  cause  and  his  honor,  he  be- 
thought him  that  Colonel  Strozzi  was  not  to  be 
trusted.  So,  afraid  of  the  design,  he  let  it  go  on, 
afraid  of  Strozzi,  let  him  command,  and  where  all 
for  good  or  ill  must  be  swayed  by  his  brain,  where 
he  must  be  trusted  altogether  or  no  whit,  would  set 
another  company  to  watch  him  and  check  him. 
Hence  Colonel  Stow. 

He  was  received  with  effusion.  "Sir,  there  Is  no 
man  in  the  army  I  could  be  so  glad  to  see,"  cried 
my  Lord  Digby. 

"That  is  disappointing,"  said  Colonel  Stow 
blandly. 

My  Lord  Digby  was  not  touchy.  "O,  I  know  your 
wit,  sir,"  he  laughed. 

"I  can  not  say  the  same,  my  lord." 

"So,  having  crossed  swords,  honor  Is  satisfied 
and  we  can  talk  sense.  Nay,  sir,  this  is  the  King's 
service." 

"I  am  at  his,  but  not  at  yours,  my  lord." 

"We  understand  each  other,"  said  my  Lord  Dig- 
by,  "and  I  know  you  for  an  honest  man." 

"Imagine  my  reply,  my  lord." 

"Now,  sir,  can  you  find  a  score  of  others  of  your 
kidney?     Stout,  honest  fellows,"  my  Lord  Digby's 


THE    KING    LOOKS  349 

eyes  twinkled,  "who'll  suffer  no  craft  from  cunning 
folk  like  me?" 

Colonel  Stow  hesitated.  He  did  not  see  his  way. 
"Why,  my  lord,"  he  said  slowly,  "no  doubt  there 
are  men  of  honor  we  have  not  lost  yet  Are  there 
none  of  your  friends?" 

"Dear  sir,"  said  my  Lord  Digby,  laughing,  "my 
friends  have  too  many  wits  to  have  much  else.  I 
want  plain,  honest  men,  good  soldiers,  who  set  their 
all  upon  the  King." 

"There  are  enough  of  us  who  have  done  that," 
said  Colonel  Stow. 

"You  can  find  a  score  of  them?" 

"Why,  yes,  my  lord.  But  I'll  not  move  a  hand 
for  you  without  knowing  more." 

"O,  sir,  I  know  you  love  me  little,  and  perhaps  I 
have  little  cause  to  love  you.  But  I  know  what  you 
are  worth.  I  know  you  are  trusty  to  the  last  and 
the  best  captain  of  horse  we  have.  So  I  seek  you 
out.    The  cause  commands  us  both." 

"Well,  my  lord?" 

"You  know  Colonel  Strozzi?" 

"Better  than  I  desire." 

"Would  you  trust  him?" 

"No  more  than  I  must." 

"It  is  my  own  mind.  Sir,  a  great  design  has 
been  entrusted  to  him." 

"Hang  the  fellow  that  did  it,  my  lord,"  exclaimed 
Colonel  Stow. 

"You  think  that?"   said  my   Lord   Digby,   with 


350  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

rising  eyebrows.     "Admirable.     You  are  my  man." 

"I  can  not  conceive  it,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"Look  you,  sir,  what  I  want  is  a  man  who  will 
watch  him,  a  man  with  the  wit  to  know  if  he  prove 
a  traitor  and  the  courage  to  strike." 

"Well,  my  lord?" 

"Sir,  a  soldier  of  your  service  must  know  well 
that  we  are  come  to  a  desperate  pass.  It  is  not  to 
be  concealed  that  the  King's  fortune  vibrates  on 
the  verge  of  the  abyss."  My  Lord  Digby  smirked 
at  his  phrase.  "The  cure  for  peril  is  more  peril.  We 
dare  what  it's  folly  to  dare  because  we  dare  no 
other.  Now,  sir.  Colonel  Strozzi  had  a  plan  full 
of  the  hazard  of  hope — " 

"And  of  the  chink  of  coin?"  said  Colonel  Stow 
politely. 

My  Lord  Digby  was  put  out.  "I  never  took  him 
for  Aristides,"  he  said  with  some  acidity.  "Sir,  it 
is  plain  to  you  that  we  are  in  no  case  to  meet  the 
army  of  the  Parliament  upon  a  stricken  field.  We 
must  therefore  seek  out  some  design,  some  cunning 
strategy  to  set  us  an  equal  chance.  This  I  conceive 
I  have  done."  Colonel  Stow,  who  had  known  ex- 
amples of  my  Lord  Digby's  art  military,  permitted 
himself  a  smile.  "An  army  without  leaders,"  says 
my  lord  with  his  wise  air,  "is  but  fools  multiplied. 
The  more  fools  be  multiplied  the  less  they  are  to 
fear.  So,  sir,  it's  my  design  to  strike  at  the  head. 
Every  army  has  but  one  neck  if  you  can  find  it.  In 
fine,  sir,  I  would  jugulate  rebellion  at  a  stroke." 


THE    KING    LOOKS  351 

"If  I  count  right,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  "you  have 
said  the  same  thing  five  times." 

"Nay,  sir,  each  time  the  import  grows,"  said  my 
lord  with  pride  as  a  master  of  language.  "In  this, 
look  you,  Colonel  Strozzi  is  our  sword,  but  I  would 
have  you  for  our  breastplate  if  the  sword  play  false. 
Now  the  design  is  this — " 

Colonel  Stow  put  up  his  hand.  "My  lord,  am  I 
so  much  your  friend?" 

My  Lord  Digby  laughed.  "Dear  sir,  it's  your 
surliness  delights  me." 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  have  anything  else  at  your 
service." 

"This  is  the  King's  service,  sir." 

"Well,  my  lord." 

"A  gruff,  honest  fellow  of  your  breed  is  our  need 
now.  We  have  enough  of  supple  subtlety  in  Strozzi. 
Now,  sir,  this  is  the  matter.  To-night  Strozzi  takes 
a  score  of  his  friends  away  to  the  rebel  lines.  He 
has  tidings  that  their  generals,  Fairfax  and  the 
Ironside  and  young  Ireton  the  lawyer,  hold  a  coun- 
cil at  Holton  House.  He  has  bribed  their  outposts, 
he  swears,  and  can  win  through  and  end  these  sweet 
saints."  ' 

"Even  as  Butler  and  Devereaux  made  an  end  of 
Wallenstein,"  said  Colonel  Stow.  His  eyes  had 
grown  keen. 

"It  was  indeed  the  exemplar,"  said  my  Lord  Dig- 
by.  "Here  you  have  the  marrow  of  it.  Now,  our 
fear  is  where  our  hope  is — in  Strozzi.     He  has  had 


352  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

money  enough  through  his  fingers  to  make  him  play 
double.  Or  the  thing  is  worth  enough  for  him  to 
sell  it  to  the  rebels." 

"Ay,  my  lord,  the  man  who  will  do  murder  is 
ever  the  man  you  can  not  trust  to  do  it." 

"Why,  the  greatest  murderer  is  the  greatest  sol- 
dier. Well,  sir  you  see  your  part.  We  ask  no  more 
of  you  than  to  ride  with  Strozzi  and  see  that  he 
does  his  work.  If  you  find  him  paltering  with  us, 
cut  him  down.     Is  it  plain?" 

"O,  plain  enough,  my  lord.  I  can  not  tell  why 
you  should  honor  me  so." 

"I  protest,  sir,  it  proves  our  value  for  you."  .  .  . 
Colonel  Stow's  lips  were  set  in  a  grim  smile.  .  .  . 
"And  shall  be  followed  by  advancement,"  my  Lord 
Digby  went  on  with  rising  emphasis,  "Well,  sir, 
your  answer?" 

"Be  assured  you  shall  have  it,"  said  Colonel  Stow, 
and  rising  made  his  bow. 

"Sure,  you  men  of  action  need  no  time  for 
thought." 

"I  have  not  said  that  we  do." 

"Yet  you  delay?  Well,  have  an  hour,  one  hour. 
Remember  your  oath  and  the  cause  and  the  honor 
of  the  King." 

"It  is  my  whole  thought,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  and 
went  out. 

My  Lord  Digby  sighed  as  a  man  of  taste  who  has 
had  to  deal  with  the  dull  necessities  of  life,  and  re- 
freshed himself  from  a  scent  box  of  clear  tortoise- 


THE    KING    LOOKS  353 

shell  and  took  up  a  manuscript  book  of  Mr.  Wal- 
ler's poems  bound  in  ivory. 

Colonel  Stow  made  across  the  quadrangle  to  the 
lodging  of  the  King. 

The  King  could  give  audience  to  no  one.  The 
King  could  be  approached  by  no  one.  The  King 
was  at  his  devotions.  Colonel  Stow  would  wait. 
The  usher  shrugged  at  him.  No  man  could  tell 
when  the  King's  devotions  might  end.  Still  Colonel 
Stow  would  wait.  The  usher  hinted  not  obscurely 
that  Colonel  Stow  was  a  fool.  Colonel  Stow  asked 
for  Captain  Bourne  of  the  King's  Guard. 

Gilbert  Bourne  had  changed  much  and  might 
have  been  Colonel  Stow's  equal  in  age.  The  two 
met  with  a  grave  kindliness.  "You  are  strange 
here.  You  are  little  of  a  courtier,  I  think,"  said 
Gilbert  Bourne.     "Can  I  serve  you?" 

"I  have  that  to  say  to  the  King  which  touches 
his  honor  nearly,"  said  Colonel  Stow  in  a  low  voice, 
glancing  at  the  usher.  Gilbert  Bourne  bade  that 
long-eared  gentleman  out.  They  crossed  to  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  and,  standing  close,  "There  is  a 
plan  afoot  which  will  shame  him  for  ever,"  said 
Colonel  Stow  and  looked  keenly  at  Gilbert  Bourne. 
But  in  his  face  there  was  little  surprise.  "I  have 
been  with  my  Lord  Digby."  Gilbert  Bourne  nod- 
ded. "For  the  King's  own  sake,  get  me  audience  of 
him." 

Gilbert  Bourne  turned  without  a  word.  He  was 
gone   some   long  while,  but  when   he  came  back. 


354  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

signed  to  Colonel  Stow  to  follow  him.  The  King 
was  in  his  presence  chamber,  a  long,  dim  lit  room 
hung  with  somber  tapestry.  It  made  harmony  with 
him.  He  had  the  black  velvet  and  silver  of  melan- 
choly. His  long  scented  hair  was  arranged  in  a 
sorrowful  pattern,  a  thin  jeweled  hand  hung  in  list- 
less affection  over  the  open  pages  of  Mr.  George 
Herbert's  Temple  that  lay  upon  his  knee.  He  raised 
to  Colonel  Stow  large  liquid  eyes  of  impotence.  ,He 
drooped. 

Colonel  Stow  saluted  soldierly.  The  King  made 
languid  answer.  "May  I  pray  your  Majesty's  ear?" 
The  King  inclined  his  head.  Colonel  Stow  glanced 
at  Mr.  Ashburnham  on  one  side  and  Gilbert  Bourne 
on  the  other.  "Sir,  'tis  a  matter  of  the  royal  honor 
and  should  be  for  none  but  you." 

The  King  looked  at  him  with  contemptuous  won- 
der, then  turned  to  Gilbert  Bourne.  "I  thought  I 
bade  the  gentleman  speak,  Gilbert?"  he  said  wear- 

iiy- 

Gilbert  Bourne  signed  to  Colonel  Stow.  "It  is 
your  Majesty's  choice,"  said  Colonel  Stow.  "Sir,  I 
am  come  to  you  from  my  Lord  Digby — " 

The  King  waved  a  limp  hand.  "My  Lord  Digby 
has  all  our  mind." 

"But  do  you  know  all  his,  sir?  Sir,  my  Lord 
Digby  has  a  design  which  will  cover  all  your  cause 
with  shame." 

The  King  turned  to  Gilbert  Bourne.  "We  can 
not  suffer  slander  of  our  trusty  friends,  Gilbert." 


THE    KING    LOOKS  355 

"Nay,  sir,  yourself  shall  judge  whether  I  slander 
him  or  he  slanders  you." 

"This  is  boorish,  Gilbert,"  said  the  King,  and 
leaned  his  head  on  his  hand. 

"I  am  not  to  be  stayed  from  serving  you  by  a 
rough  word,  sir.  My  Lord  Digby  sent  for  me,  and 
on  my  coming  desired  my  help  for  an  infamous  ven- 
ture— " 

The  King  dropped  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  "This 
is  not  to  be  borne,"  he  said  wearily. 

"Ay,  sir,  it  is  not  to  be  borne  that  he  speaks  in 
your  name  and  in  your  cause.  For  he  plans  no 
less  than  a  bloody  murder.  He  has  got  together  a 
party  of  bravos,  he  has  bribed  some  villain  of  the 
rebel  side,  and  he  purposes  to  assassinate  their  gen- 
erals to-night.  Sir,  I  know  you  can  be  nothing  in 
it,  but  whether  he  stumble  or  succeed,  all  Europe 
will  put  the  blame  on  you." 

The  King  looked  through  his  fingers.  "You  are 
either  very  false  or  very  foolish,  sir." 

"li  you  doubt  me,  bring  my  Lord  Digby  to  my 
face  and  see  how  much  he  can  deny." 

"We  do  not  need.  We  would  not  so  insult  my 
lord,  who  is  all  trusty." 

"By  Heaven,  sir,  'tis  within  the  knowledge  of  a 
score.  He  broached  it  to  me  openly  as  I  to  you. 
I  beseech  you,  confront  me  with  him." 

"We  are  well  assured  of  the  loyalty  of  my  lord, 
who  is  all  for  our  honor,"  said  the  King  in  the 
same  level,  tired  voice. 


356  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Ods  blood,  sir,  do  you  want  to  be  blind  to  the 
truth?  I  swear  as  God  rules,  my  Lord  Digby  means 
to  link  your  cause  with  a  foul  murder.  If  you  value 
your  ^lonor  a  pennyweight,  search  into  it" 

"This  fellow  is  insolent,  Gilbert,"  said  the  King. 

Colonel  Stow  drew  back.  "Ay,  shut  your  eyes 
to  it,  then,"  he  cried.  "Know  naught  of  the  vil- 
lainy till  you  can  profit  by  it.  By  Heaven,  the  as- 
sassin that  risks  his  skin  is  a  better  man !" 

The  King  started  to  his  feet  and  stood  mutely 
bidding  him  away,  a  picturesque  figure  of  sad  dig- 
nity, a  saint  scorning  blasphemy. 

Colonel  Stow  laughed  at  him  and  strode  out. 

Then  Gilbert  Bourne  approached  eagerly  and  fell 
on  his  knee.  "I  pray  you,  sir,  I  pray  you,  give  me 
leave  to  ask — " 

"Nay,  lad,  nay,  not  now,"  said  the  King  with  a 
sad,  gentle  smile.     "I  have  many  matters." 

"But,  sir,  I  pray  you  for  this  gentleman — " 

"Not  now,  lad.  I  must  be  alone  with  God."  He 
patted  Gilbert  Bourne  kindly  and  turned  away  to  his 
oratory. 

Gilbert  Bourne  changed  a  shrug  and  a  look  of 
despair  with  Mr.  Ashburnham  and  went  out. 

Colonel  Stow  returned  at  some  speed  to  my  Lord 
Digby.  My  Lord  Digby,  who  had  beheld  his  move- 
ments through  the  window,  kept  him  waiting  in  the 
anteroom.  Colonel  Stow  smote  with  his  sword  hilt 
on  the  table  and  the  pale  secretary  came  in  alarmed 
hurry.  "Tell  my  lord  that  if  I  can  not  keep  him  from 


THE    KING    LOOKS  357 

being  a  villain,  I  will  not  help  him,"  he  cried.    And 
my  Lord  Digby  within  heard  and  smiled. 

Colonel  Stow  had  hardly  come  back  to  his  lodg- 
ings before  the  Provost  Marshal  with  a  posse  waited 
on  him  and  escorted  him  to  the  prison  in  Bocardo. 


CHAPTER  FORTY 

A  CAVALIER  DIES 

^  OLONEL  Stow  sat  laughing.  A  cell  in  Bo- 
^-^    cardo  was  a  quaint  byway  ending  to  it  all. 

There  was  an  elfish  humor  in  things.  He  deter- 
mined upon  death  as  the  best  career ;  he  set  himself 
to  be  a  respectable  martyr  for  a  silly  cause,  and,  be- 
hold, the  cause  would  have  none  of  him  save  as  a 
murderer.  What  would  the  next  turn  be?  All  things 
were  possible  where  Charles  was  King.  Perhaps 
when  the  plot  was  known,  when  England  was  cry- 
ing shame  and  a  scapegoat  needed,  they  would  pitch 
on  him  for  a  hanging.  That  would  be  a  harmonious 
end. 

What  would  come  of  it?  Colonel  Stow  had  an 
adequate  distrust  of  Strozzi.  He  might  be  playing 
doubly,  trebly  false.  It  would  not  be  the  first  time. 
Suppose  him  trusty,  suppose  him  successful,  and 
Fairfax  and  Cromwell  done  to  death,  what  then? 
Doubtless  the  King  would  have  an  hour  of  vantage. 
Doubtless  the  Puritan  army  might  be  hurled  back 
in  chaos.  But  the  hour  would  pass.  It  was  not  in 
Fairfax  or  Cromwell  that  the  Puritan  power  lay. 
Fanatics  were  never  beaten  by  their  leaders'  death. 

358 


A    CAVALIER    DIES  359 

They  stood  by  their  own  strong  faith.  Ay,  they 
stood  by  the  weakness  of  the  King.  While  the  King 
was  King  his  cause  could  never  triumph.  There 
was  no  victory  for  a  man  who  kept  faith  with 
none,  who  told  the  truth  not  even  to  himself.  He 
looked  through  his  fingers.  He  was  a  liar  in  grain, 
and  the  impotence  of  the  liar  cursed  his-  cause. 
There  was  no  question  of  the  end.  Soon  or  late 
the  Puritans  must  trample  him  down. 

And  then  ?  With  some  grim  humor  Colonel  Stow 
imagined  the  Puritans  marching  down  the  Corn- 
market  and  Bocardo  door  battered  open  and  him- 
self, something  lean,  coming  dazzled  to  the  light. 
So  he  had  seen  Tilly's  Croats  at  Ingolstadt.  But 
in  a  month  they  were  riding  again  with  Pappen- 
heim's  black  hussars.  With  him  all  would  be  fin- 
ished. The  King  cast  him  off,  the  Puritans  would 
want  none  of  him.  If  he  sought  fortune  beyond 
seas,  there  was  scant  hope.  The  war  was  burned  out 
in  Germany.  French  and  Austrian  fronted  each 
other  still,  but  weariness  laid  heavy  hands  on  them. 
The  clouds  of  peace  were  gathering.  Only  England 
offered  fortune  for  the  sword,  and  England  would 
none  of  him. 

It  remained  to  creep  home  with  the  burden  of  de- 
feat. He  winced.  .  .  .  There  was  some  pain 
in  that.  He  had  bragged  of  high  hopes;  he  had 
held  himself  for  a  man  of  power.  Kind  folks  would 
remind  him  of  it,  and  though  they  might  be  borne, 
with  each  petty  day  he  would  remind  himself.     To 


36o  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

be  a  quiet  yeoman,  to  occupy  with  the  cattle  and  the 
com  ...  he  smiled  at  himself  ...  It 
was  a  farce  of  a  tragedy.  God  save  a  lad  from 
dreams!  Long  days  in  the  tilth  of  the  vale,  long 
days  after  the  ewes  on  the  down,  it  was  a  dead  life 
for  a  man  who  had  charged  Wallenstein's  squares, 
who  had  held  the  surge  of  Cromwell's  pursuit.  He 
felt  again  the  wild  throb  of  peril,  the  glad  call  of 
death  that  wakes  the  soul  to  mastery.  That,  all  that 
was  gone.  He  was  to  be  the  prisoner  of  circum- 
stance.    For  him  the  life  of  an  ox  at  stall. 

Ay,  it  rang  a  strange  discord  with  dreams.  He, 
who  was  a  captain  of  men,  came  with  impotent 
heart,  limping  home  to  hide  in  the  corner  chance 
gave  him.  Doubtless  he  had  what  he  earned. 
O,  doubtless,  a  fool  had  a  fool's  harvest.  And  yet 
— and  yet — despair  could  not  grip  him  so  that  he 
doubted  himself  a  soldier.  He  had  proved  his 
strength. 

But  he  had  played  it  false.  He  had  wasted  it  on 
a  carrion  cause.  Like  a  drunken  man  he  had  gone 
reeling  after  the  first  trumpet  call.  A  drunken  man 
»— faith  it  was  the  right  name  for  him.  He  had 
been  drunk  with  the  poisonous  desire  of  dreams.  To 
love  a  woman  well,  to  stake  life  upon  her,  must  ever 
be  wild  fortune;  it  was  plain  ruin  for  a  man  to  give 
his  soul  to  the  woman  born  of  his  own  mind.  With  a 
grim  smile  he  saw  again  the  dream  creature  who  had 
been  the  queen  of  his  soul,  her  who  was  quick  with 
every  noble  passion,  utterly  loyal  to  the  right  heart 


A    CAVALIER    DIES  361 

of  life,  and  likened  her  to  the  real  woman,  throb- 
bing for  nothing  but  the  fierce  greed  of  desire.  He 
was  unjust,  but  he  did  not  yield  to  hate  or  seek  to 
believe  her  formed  of  all  baseness.  That  was  not 
his  nature.  Only  he  saw  her  lithe  form,  instinct 
with  eager  strength,  and  felt  what  she  had  done  for 
him  and  his  friend.  But  for  his  friend  he  might 
have  been  merciful.  He  was  man  enough  to  set  the 
brand  of  that  treason  on  the  woman. 

But  he  held  himself  in  fault  first  and  Last.  It  was 
not  her  blame  that  he  asked  more  of  her  than  the 
fair  body  which  was  all  she  had  to  give.  It  was 
his  own  choice  to  worship,  his  own  choice  to  obey. 
Yes,  God  save  every  man  from  the  woman  of  his 
dreams. 

He  was  curious  to  fancy  what  might  have  hap- 
pened if  she  had  been  other.  But  there  had  never 
been  another  woman  and  certainly  there  would  be 
no  other  now.  He  felt  himself  old  and  bloodless 
beyond  all  desire.  Still,  it  was  amusing  to  make  the 
might  have  been.  Suppose  that  clean  little  Puritan 
lass — but  she  was  a  little  cold  for  his  temper  and 
more  than  a  little  too  righteous  for  his  easy  hon- 
esty. He  was  ill  at  ease  with  so  many  virtues.  And 
yet  a  delicious  child.  Clear  eyed,  fragrant,  like 
may  in  the  dew.  Yes.  Clear  eyed.  There  would 
be  no  cheat  in  her.  For  a  moment  he  conceived  him- 
self a  Puritan. 

Then  laughing,  thanked  God  he  was  not.  He  had 
escaped  at  least  the  burden  of  sanctity.     It  was  a 


362  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

certain  consolation.  He  remained  a  man.  He  dared 
do  wrong. 

So  he  took  counsel  with  himself  while  the  last  red 
light  faded  through  the  grating  and  died.  They 
were  not  early  with  their  candles  in  Bocardo.  He 
sat  some  while  in  the  dark  before  the  bolts  creaked 
and  he  heard  a,  "Zounds,  is  this  how  you  serve  a 
gentleman?     Lights,  rogue!" 

He  knew  that  voice.  In  a  moment  he  was  blink- 
ing through  the  candle-light  at  Gilbert  Bourne. 
"Well,  sir?" 

Gilbert  Bourne  signed  the  turnkey  away.  "Go 
talk  with  your  fellows  below,  knave,"  and  drew  Col- 
onel Stow  to  the  far  corner.  "You  are  right,  sir,"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice.  "They  do  intend  this  damnable 
thing."  Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "Lud,  can  you  take 
it  so?" 

"Why,  when  I  took  it  gravely,  you  saw  what 
came  of  it.  Faith,  'tis  a  fool  that  has  a  better  con- 
science than  his  King." 

"Sir,  the  King  is  misled  by  ill  counselors." 

"O,  do  not  believe  it.  He'll  find  none  worse  than 
himself." 

"I  must  believe  it.     And  we  must  save  him." 

Colonel  Stow  looked  round  his  cell.  "I  have  done 
my  part,  I  think,"  he  said  with  a  sneer. 

"I  know  you  better,  sir,"  cried  Gilbert  Bourne. 
Colonel  Stow  looked  at  the  lad  with  a  new  interest. 
His  face  was  exalted,  like  a  man's  glad  to  ride  his 
last  charge. 


A    CAVALIER    DIES  363 

Colonel  Stow  shrugged.  "He  chooses  to  be  a 
knave.     Let  him  wear  the  brand." 

"He  is  the  King,"  said  Gilbert  Bourne,  and 
Colonel  Stow  laughed  at  the  reverence  in  his  voice. 
"O,  sir,  we  can  not  hold  him  guilty.  He  is  blinded 
by  villains.  We  must  save  him  from  the  shame  of 
it."  He  laid  an  earnest  hand  on  Colonel  Stow. 
"Sir,  you  have  felt  it  as  I.    We  must  go  on." 

"Faith,  I  think  I  went  some  way,"  said  Colonel 
Stow  with  a  grim  laugh.  "I  have  my  reward.  If 
you  want  more,  go  to  a  gentleman  outside  Bocardo. 
I  tell  you  plainly  I  have  no  more  will  to  help  you 
than  power." 

"I  know  you  better,  sir,"  said  Gilbert  Bourne 
again. 

"By  Heaven,  you  know  too  much  for  me,"  said 
Colonel  Stow  angrily.  "If  you  mean  anything,  tell 
me  what  you  mean." 

"Believe  me,  I  am  all  your  friend,"  said  Gilbert 
Bourne,  gently  enough.  "There  is  a  debt  .  .  . 
come  out  of  your  prison  now  and  help  me  save  our 
King." 

"O,  for  your  King — ^there  is  no  man  to  save  him. 
Kill  the  King  and  his  cause  might  conquer.  Look 
you,  sir,  I  have  given  him  all  my  strength  and  this 
is  the  end  of  it.  He  may  carry  the  mark  of  hell 
for  me.  And  for  myself — I  had  as  lief  be  nothing 
in  the  blackest  prison  as  nothing  under  the  bluest  sky 
of  heaven." 

"A  man's  not  nothing  while  there  Is  work  for 


364  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

him,"  said  Gilbert  Bourne,  and  Colonel  Stow  looked 
at  him  strangely.  The  lad  dared  be  stronger  than  he. 

"Where  is  it?"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"Come  with  me  now.  I  have  told  them  I  come 
to  take  you  to  the  King.  There  are  horses  in  wait- 
ing behind  St.  Aldate's.  We  will  ride  to  Holton 
and  tell  the  Puritans  the  King  has  tidings  of  a  mur- 
derous, treacherous  attack  intended  and  hath  sent 
us  to  give  them  all  honorable  warning." 

Colonel  Stow  let  out  a  laugh  that  rang  true. 
"Conceive  the  Royal  gratitude!"  But  Gilbert  Bourne 
did  not  laugh.  "  'Thank  you  for  nothing  and  my 
honor,'  quoth  his  Majesty.  O,  he  will  put  up  a  Te 
Deum  for  his  trusty  servants.  I  would  go  for  the 
joke  of  it  But  lad,  this  will  be  no  easy  thing.  We 
have  to  outride  Strozzi's  babes  and  pass  them.  And 
I  do  not  know — but  there  must  be  some  attack  in 
force  to  follow  on  the  murder.  The  roads  will  be 
dangerous." 

"I  know  I  need  you,"  said  Gilbert  Bourne  simply. 

Colonel  Stow  was  already  buckling  his  sword. 
"Why,  I  am  a  fool  that  jumps  for  a  chance  of  ac- 
tion. And  a  moment  ago  I  thought  my  blood  dead ! 
Well.    But  I  know  what  you  are  doing  for  me,  lad." 

"I — remember,"  said  Gilbert  Bourne  unsteadily. 
"Come."  He  led  out  and  down  the  dark,  broken 
stairs.  At  the  foot  an  escort  of  a  corporal  and  two 
men  lounged,  chattering  with  the  gaoler. 

"By  your  good  leave,  sir,"  says  the  gaoler,  com- 
ing forward,  "will  you  sign  my  book  here?"  and 


A    CAVALIER    DIES  365 

while  Gilbert  Bourne  was  writing,  "and  will  you 
bring  un  back  to-night,  sir?" 

"The  King's  service  governs  all,  my  friend,"  said 
Gilbert  Bourne. 

In  a  moment  they  were  marching  with  the  escort 
swiftly  down  the  Cornmarket.  At  Gilbert  Bourne's 
quarters  in  St.  Aldate's  they  stopped.  The 
escort  was  bidden  wait  at  the  door.  Colonel  Stow 
went  in  by  the  front  door  and  out  at  the  back.  There 
were  horses  saddled  in  the  lane. 

Gilbert  Bourne  had  the  password.  They  were 
across  Magdalen  bridge  with  hardly  a  check.  As 
they  turned  by  the  Wheatley  road  they  heard  the 
cavalry  mustering  in  the  river  meadows,  and 
changed  a  glance.  "We'll  be  between  them  and 
Strozzi's  babes,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  and  laughed 
irrelevantly. 

"Strozzi  is  half  an  hour  ahead.  Where  shall  we 
pass  him?" 

Colonel  Stow  laughed  again.  "  'Tis  all  a  mad  bus- 
iness.    What  will  you  give  for  your  life?" 

"If  we  save  the  King — " 

"Who  desires  damnation." 

"O,  sir,  you  wrong  him.  He  is  in  the  hands  of 
evil  counselors.  He  is  of  a  noble  heart.  In  a  better 
hour  he  will  give  us  thanks.  It  is  but  the  villains 
who  have  his  ear.  Sure,  sir,  it's  our  part  to  give 
all  for  his  honor." 

Colonel  Stow  smiled  to  himself  at  this  desperate 
loyalty.     But,  "God  save  you,  lad,"  said  he  kindly 


366  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

enough.  "I'll  do  my  share."  He  admitted  no  debt 
to  the  King,  But  the  humor  of  preserving  the  royal 
honor  against  the  royal  will  attracted  him  more  and 
more  and  the  wild  adventure  had  its  own  charm. 
So  they  rode  on  knee  by  knee  up  Shotover. 

It  was  a  dark,  heavy  night  and  the  horses  labored 
wet  against  the  hill.  Not  a  leaf  moved  above  them, 
not  a  sound  came.  Even  their  own  din  was  muffled 
in  the  chill,  dank  vapors.  The  sky  was  a  low,  nar- 
row vault  of  gloom,  unbroken  by  a  strand  of  star- 
light. 

"Fit  night  for  murder  and  camisado,"  said  Col- 
onel Stow.     "Strozzi  has  luck." 

"Who  knows?"  quoth  Gilbert  Bourne. 

Colonel  Stow,  peering  at  him  through  the  gloom, 
saw  the  eagerness  of  his  face. 

They  breasted  the  hill  top  and  .after  a  moment 
broke  to  a  gallop  again  on  the  level  plateau.  The 
air  seemed  to  move  at  last.  It  bit  keen  at  nostril  and 
eye.  They  made  speed.  Here  on  the  hill  the  night 
was  clearer.  They  could  see  the  gray  ribbon  of 
road  some  way  ahead.  But  no  sound  came.  Strozzi 
held  them  fairly. 

They  were  close  upon  the  farther  slope,  already 
through  the  trees  they  caught  glimpses  of  the  abyss 
below,  when  Colonel  Stow  cocked  his  head  aside. 
"What  was  that?"  he  said  sharply.  But  Gilbert 
Bourne  heard  nothing.  It  was  a  moment  more  till 
a  sound  came  clear. 

"We  are  on  them,"  cried  Gilbert  Bourne. 


A    CAVALIER    DIES  367 

"  'Tis  the  last  thing  we  want,"  said  Colonel  Stow, 
and  checked  and  drew  aside.  But  Gilbert  Bourne, 
heedless,  dashed  on. 

A  rough  voice  cried  "Milano?"  out  of  the  gloom. 
"Milano?"  It  was  plainly  a  password.  Gilbert 
Bourne  had  no  answer.  Two  horsemen  plunged  at 
him.  Colonel  Stow  saw  the  white  flicker  of  their 
swords.  He  drove  in  his  spurs  and  charged.  But 
before  he  came,  Gilbert  Bourne  was  down  and  the 
two  reining  round.  He  got  his  point  home  in  on«, 
but  the  fellow  kept  the  saddle  and  broke  away. 

Colonel  Stow  leaped  down  to  his  friend.  He  could 
bear  no  help.  There  was  a  grim  wound  in  the  lad's 
throat  and  already  he  lay  in  a  pool  of  blood.  "On  !" 
he  gasped.  "On!  You  now!  For — for  the  King!" 
and  even  as  Colonel  Stow,  all  hopeless,  tried  to  close 
the  wound  he  moved  a  little  and  sighed  and  was 
still. 

Colonel  Stow  stood  over  him  with  grim,  set  face. 
O,  the  King  owed  life  a  debt!  How  many  men  had 
fallen  for  the  honor  of  him  who  cared  nothing  for 
honor?  Poor  lad,  with  his  desperate  loyalty,  with 
his  faith  in  a  faithless  king,  his  life  for  a  false 
dream     .     .     . 

Colonel  Stow  caught  the  dead  man's  pistols, 
sprang  to  the  saddle  and  made  off'  down  hill  at  a 
mad  pace.  If  time  might  serve,  the  King  should 
have  no  profit  of  this  baseness. 

But  close  behind  came  the  boom  of  Rupert's  hur- 
rying squadrons. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-ONE 

WIFE  AND  MAID 

'T^HE  sunset  light  was  coming  to  an  upper  cham- 
-■-  ber  in  Thame.  There  David  Stow's  wife,  Joy, 
setting  new  roses  in  a  great  blue  bowl,  belied  her 
name  with  sighs.  The  room  was  neat  and  spotless  as 
the  white  linen  at  her  neck,  but,  her  roses  ordered, 
she  could  not  be  content  with  it  and  looked  narrowly 
over  the  light  oak  wainscot  and  put  the  settle  and 
the  great  leather  chairs  anew  and  took  the  pewter 
salvers  down  to  put  them  up  again. 

To  this  business  came  Joan  Normandy,  grave  and 
pale  from  the  burden  of  her  nursing.  Joy  ran  to 
her  with  a  little  glad  cry.  "O,  you  come  kindly.  I 
was  beginning  to  be  sad." 

"My  dear,  I  come  to  be  made  merry,"  said  Joan 
with  her  grave  smile. 

"You  are  very  good  for  me,  because  you  make  me 
feel  sinful,"  said  Joy,  and  compelled  her  to  the 
pleasantest  chair  and  took  her  gray  cloak  from  her. 

"Am  I  a  Pharisee,  then?" 

"Joan!  It  is  wrong  in  you  to  make  so  little  of 
yourself.  If  you  have  no  assurance  of  salvation, 
how  can  we  dare?" 

368 


WIFE    AND    MAID  369 

"We'll  not  match  ourselves,  dear,"  said  Joan  gen- 
tly. "And,  indeed,  I  think  'tis  not  assurance  but 
works  that  make  one  happy." 

Joy  watched  her  with  ,a  wise,  tender  smile.  "How 
can  I  dare  be  sad?"  she  said  half  to  herself.  "I 
have  only  parting  to  bear  when  God's  work  calls 
him  away.  And  you,"  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"dear  heart,  you  have  not  even  begun  to  be  happy 
yet." 

"Have  I  not?  You  are  grown  wise,  Joy.  And 
yet — were  you  not  happy  the  old  days — ^before?" 

Joy  laughed  a  little  softly.  Her  eyes  were  aglow 
with  a  glad,  pure  wonder  and  joy.  "Ah,  telling 
tells  nothing,"  she  said.  "Dear,  it  was  blind  life, 
a  halt  life  to  this.  Indeed,  till  you  have  given  your 
life  away,  you  can  not  live,  I  think.  I  never  knew 
I  w,as  anything  till  I  was  all  his.  And  now — Joan, 
to  be  rich  and  give !" 

"Yes,"  Joan  said.  She  was  lying  back  in  her 
chair  and  her  face  hidden  in  the  shadow. 

The  sunlight  was  changing  and  failing  and  the 
crimson  of  the  roses  grew  dark.  Joy  took  one  from 
the  bowl  and  came  to  lay  it  against  the  broad  white 
collar  that  fell  over  Joan's  heart.  "Some  day,"  she 
said  softly.     "Some  day." 

Joan's  hand  closed  on  hers  with  sudden  strength. 
"No,"  she  murmured,  and  laughed  then.  "  'Tis  a 
white  rose  for  me,  dear." 

Joy  drew  away  a  little  and  looked  down  at  her 
with  grave,  pitiful  eyes.     She  began  to  speak  and 


370  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

checked  herself.  "I'll  believe  in  the  red  rose,"  she 
said.     "God  never  meant  women  for  maids." 

Joan  was  near  as  red  as  the  rose.  "Is  a  woman 
only  a  woman?"  she  said  in  a  strange,  stern  voice. 
"Has  she  no  soul  above  that?  Sure,  beyond  this 
world  there  is  neither  marriage  nor  giving  in  mar- 
riage, nor  men  nor  women." 

"Is  that  what  it  means?"  said  Joy  with  a  kindly 
scorn,  such  as  a  mother  might  use  to  a  foolish 
child. 

"Dear,  I  would  not  despise  your  gladness,"  said 
Joan  so  sagely  that  a  little  reckless,  nervous  laugh 
broke  from  her  friend.  "But  God  does  not  design  it 
for  all  women,  I  think.  I  am  not  made  for — for — " 
^  delicate  color  stained  her  brow.  "I  could  not  give 
all  of  myself,  indeed.  Ah,  do  you  know  how  I 
shrink  from  it?"  Joy  laid  a  gentle  caressing  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  but  she  drew  away.  "Yes,  yes,  it  is 
right,  I  know.  But  it  is  horrible  to  me.  I  am  not 
made  for  that.  I  must  possess  myself.  I  can  not  be 
true  to  God  else."  Her  voice  rang  queerly  and  there 
was  fear  in  Joy's  eyes.  Come  from  maid  to  wife 
with  no  sorrow,  she  did  not  know  this  passion  of 
womanhood  turned  against  itself.  "Nay,  but  I  am 
a  sick  fool  to  talk  so,"  cried  Joan  between  a  laugh 
and  a  sob.  "Tell  me  of  Madame  Joy's  joys.  Has 
the  good  man  ever  a  will  of  his  own  now?" 

"My  dear!"  said  Joy,  who  had  no  jest  ready. 

"O,  I  vow  he  is  mighty  obedient." 

Joy  was  demure.     "Nay,  dear,  there  is  no  obed- 


WIFE    AND    MAID  371 

ience  in  marriage.  The  desire  of  one  is  the  desire 
of  the  other.     You  have  to  make  him  see  that." 

"Poor  soul!"  said  Joan.  "And  what  has  he 
made  you  see?" 

"That  I  am  the  most  wonderful  creature  in  the 
world,"  said  Joy.     "Because  he  is." 

"You  are  wise." 

"  'Tis  the  one  thing  he  never  called  me." 

"The  poor  gentleman  is  hard  put  to  it.  If  he 
calls  you  wise  to  love  him — " 

"He  says  that  water  is  wet" 

"Nay,  he  sings  his  own  praises." 

"  'Tis  the  same  thing." 

"And  therefore  idle.  But  if  he  saith,  'Fool  to 
love  me—'  " 

"It  would  be  plain  folly." 

"And  slander  of  you.  Which  is  the  same  thing 
again.  So  like  a  wise  husband,  he  keeps  h's  tongue 
behind  his  teeth." 

"Indeed,  he  does  no  such  thing!"  cried  Joy  with 
indignation.  "You  see,"  she  smiled,  blushing,  "you 
see  I  have  to  be  told  so  many  times." 

"It  argues  want  of  faith,"  said  Joan. 

Joy  laughed.  "It  argues — "  she  faltered,  "it  ar- 
gues— "  she  flung  her  arms  wide  and  stood  so.  "Just 
that." 

But  afterwards  in  the  dark  when  Joan  was  gone 
she  sat  and  cried  for  the  maid's  lonely  heart.  To 
her  gladness  that  fierce  passion  for  maidenhood  was 
of  all  things  most  miserable. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-TWO 

THE  NIGHT  ALARM 

"PVEN  as  Colonel  Stow  started  away  down  the 
■^ — '  hill  side,  Rupert's  vanguard  shouted  a  chal- 
lenge from  behind.  He  took  his  horse  on  at  a  mad 
speed,  but  broke  from  the  track  to  the  open  turf  on 
his  left.  By  the  sound  Strozzi's  men  were  well  be- 
fore him,  but  there  might  be  more  of  their  rear 
guards.  Rupert's  men  kept  the  road,  striking 
straight  for  the  heart  of  the  Puritan  army.  Strozzi 
had  borne  away  toward  Shotover  pond  and  Colonel 
Stow,  following  hard,  saw  at  once  the  gray  glimmer 
of  it  and  far  down  the  road  the  gleam  of  fires  in 
the  Puritan  outposts,  Rupert's  goal.  Still  Strozzi 
held  the  same  swift  pace.  Plainly  he  feared  no  trap. 
He  trusted  the  traitor  who  was  to  let  him  in. 

It  seemed  he  was  right.  Colonel  Stow,  riding 
reckless,  drew  close  upon  him  and  saw  his  troops 
break  unchallenged  over  the  cross-roads  and  up 
the  grassy  slope  beyond  and  turn  sharp  and  plunge 
into  the  wooded  demesne  of  Holton.  The  trees  stood 
like  vague,  dark  ghosts.  Strozzi's  men  broke  their 
ranks  and  checked  perforce  and  checked  again.  But 
Colonel  Stqw  held  on.  The  lights  of  a  house  twinkled 

372 


THE    NIGHT    ALARM  373 

through  the  gloom.  Strozzi's  men  drew  together 
again,  reined  up  and  dismounted.  A  few  were  left 
with  the  horses.  The  rest  made  a  scurry  for  the 
house.  Then  Colonel  Stow  drove  his  spurs  home 
and  asked  the  last  strength  of  his  horse. 

He  broke  into  them  just  before  the  door.  He 
rode  some  down  before  they  caught  his  bridle  and 
slashed  at  him  and  his  horse.  He  let  off  a  pistol 
at  the  nearest  head  and  roared,  "Guard!  Turn  out, 
guard!"  Orderlies  came  running  out  of  the  house 
and  he  heard  the  spit  of  an  Italian  oath  and  Stroz- 
zi's voice  hissing,  "On,  bullies,  on !"  His  horse 
shrieked  to  a  vicious  thrust  and  stumbled.  He  flung 
himself  from  the  saddle,  firing  again  as  he  fell. 

His  shots  echoing  across  the  dark  were  mightily 
answered.  Around  them  far  and  near  the  pickets 
woke  with  musket  flash  and  rattle  and  trumpets 
pealed.  The  army  roused  with  a  mile  long  din, 
clatter  of  steel  and  hurrying  tramp.  It  was  time. 
The  thunder  of  horsemen  grew  and  the  air  flamed 
yellow,  and  there  came  the  dull  rolling  roar  of 
fight.     Rupert  struck  home. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  house  the  Puritan  order- 
lies made  stand  and  Strozzi's  men  hurled  at  them  in 
a  mass.  Colonel  Stow  staggered  to  his  feet  and 
thrust  into  the  midst,  crushed,  sweating,  cheek  to 
cheek.  In  the  dark,  in  the  frenzy  of  that  mad  me- 
lee, none  knew  him  from  another,  and  striking  from 
below  with  short  sword  craftily,  he  slew  men  who 
cursed  their  comrades  for  the  deed  and  died.    So  by 


374  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

the  space  of  their  dead  bodies  he  won  on  through 
the  press.  He  must  to  the  front!  If  he  were  to 
serve,  he  must  to  the  front,  and  the  fortune  of  the 
night  walked  upon  a  sword's  edge  now.  Reckless, 
ruthless,  he  panted  on. 

The  orderlies  held  the  doorway  gallantly  a  while, 
but  they  were  overborne  by  the  storm  of  steel  and 
slain.  Trampling  them  down,  the  mad  troop  surged 
on.  A  sturdy  door  brought  them  up  short.  Strozzi 
and  the  foremost  hurled  themselves  upon  it  in  vain. 
Then,  with  bare  sword,  Strozzi  beat  the  crowd  back 
to  get  room  for  a  run,  yelling  many  things  in  Ital- 
ianate  English.  All  together  they  dashed  at  the 
oak  and  Colonel  Stow,  locked  close  with  the  rest,  let 
off  his  third  pistol  at  a  venture  low  into  the  midst 
of  them.  He  saw  Strozzi's  livid  face  turn  as  they 
crashed  on  the  door  and  in  the  shriek  of  the  tearing 
timber  heard  him  hiss,  "I'll  flay  the  hound  who  has 
done  that  firing."  The  great  door  failed  before  them 
and  whirled  back,  and  pell  mell,  all  staggering  and 
falling,  they  hurtled  into  the  hall. 

There  was  no  light  now,  save  from  the  fire.  Be- 
hind a  barricade  of  table  and  chairs,  the  generals 
stood  to  arms.  Strozzi's  men  found  their  feet  and 
stared  and  held  off,  muttering.  Colonel  Stow  re- 
membered that  silent  moment  of  shame;  old  Skip- 
pon  with  the  sleeve  drawn  back  from  his  fat  arm, 
breathing  noisily  through  his  mouth  as  he  made  his 
sword  quiver;  Cromwell  towering  above  him,  the 
coarse,  fat  face  distorted  with  the  anger  of  battle, 


THE    NIGHT    ALARM  375 

and  the  red  flame  light  falling  queerly  on  his  gray 
eyes;  Fairfax,  plainly  by  his  swordsman's  poise,  the 
best  man  of  his  hands  of  them  all,  with  a  quiet 
smile  on  his  lips  and  his  eyes;  Ireton,  keen  and 
calm,  with  a  strange  frown  of  wonder  and  puzzle; 
and  before  them  the  score  of  sweating,  foaming  bul- 
lies, faltering,  fearing  the  attack. 

Strozzi  cursed  them  vehemently.  "Passion  of 
Christ!  You  are  five  to  one,  fools,  five  to  one! 
Have  at  them  !  Blood  !  Blood  !"  and  he  dashed  at 
Cromwell.  No  one  ever  called  him  a  coward.  For 
a  moment  he  fought  alone  with  the  four,  but  so 
fierce  was  his  fury,  he  took  no  hurt,  and  ,a  red  line 
grew  dark  and  darker  on  Cromwell's  neck.  At 
sight  of  that  there  was  a  mad  shout  and  the  bullies 
charged  forward  together.  Colonel  Stow,  swept  on 
in  that  brute  charge,  heard  Cromwell's  deep  chested 
laughter  and  fired  his  last  pistol  into  the  nearest 
head.  While  the  acrid  smoke  was  still  about  him, 
while  Strozzi  yelled :  "Will  you  stick  that  fool  with 
the  pistols?"  it  seemed  that  he  heard  a  cry 
from  without  answer  the  shot.  Then  men  turned 
swords  upon  him  and  some  knew  him  and  broke  into 
fierce,  wild  oaths  and  though  the  dead  man  was  his 
buckler,  he  hardly  kept  them  off"  a  moment.  The 
burden  and  the  press  were  too  much.  With  scarce 
one  wound,  by  force  of  blunted  thrusts,  he  was  borne 
down  beneath  the  dead,  and  trampling  on  them  both, 
spurning  them,  the  bullies  charged  on  to  their  prey. 

The  generals  were  in  sore  case.     Skippon  was 


376      '      COLONEL    GREATHEART 

bleeding  ^nd  failing  and  Ireton  the  lawyer,  too; 
Cromwell  reeked  and  panted  in  the  stress;  only 
Fairfax  held  his  own,  smiling  still,  and  fought  on 
like  Bussy  or  Bayard.  But  from  without  came  loud 
the  thunder  of  galloping  horsemen.  Cromwell  drew 
back  from  the  medley  of  steel  a  moment,  and  shouted 
in  the  voice  of  his  battles:  "Who  is  on  my  side? 
Who?" 

Deep  and  exultant  the  shout  came  back:  "The 
sword  of  the  Lord!" 

Strozzi  sprang  out  of  the  fight  with  an  oath  and 
turned  to  run.  The  others  had  no  more  heart.  In 
a  moment  they  were  pushing  out  in  a  wild  mob  as 
they  had  stormed  in.  Some  of  the  first  were  in  time 
and  broke  away  to  their  horses  and  fled  all  ways, 
like  rabbits,  but  the  most  of  them  came  full  upon 
the  rush  of  Puritan  troopers  and  fell  like  grass  to 
the  scythe.  There  was  no  mercy.  "Spare  them 
not!"  cried  the  captain.  "Utterly  destroy!"  and 
they  were  hewn  down,  and  red  with  blood,  the  troop- 
ers broke  into  the  hall,  and  fell  to  stabbing  the 
wounded  and  the  dead.  Cromwell  clambered  up 
the  barricade  and  sat  himself  on  it  and  looked  at 
the  butchery  and  laughed,  and  wiping  the  blood  and 
sweat  from  his  neck,  broke  out  with  a  hoarse  chant : 

The  Lord's  my  light  and  saving  health, 
Who  shall  make  me  dismay'd? 

My  life's  strength  is  the  Lord;  of  whom, 
Then,  shall  I  be  afraid? 


THE    NIGHT   ALARM  377 

When  as  mine  enemies  and  foes 

(Most  wicked  persons  all) 
To  eat  my  flesh  against  me  rose, 

They  stumbled  and  did  fall. 

But  Fairfax,  with  a  sharp  order,  checked  the 
ghastly  slaying  of  the  slain.  The  captain  grumbled 
something  of  the  Amalekites.  "But  a  live  Amale- 
kite  would  be  most  useful,"  said  Ireton,  the  Lawyer. 
He  had  the  candles  lit  again  and  began  to  look  the 
bodies  over.  Under  the  fellow  whose  head  he  had 
blown  in.  Colonel  Stow  was  found,  wounded  and 
bruised  and  still  half  stunned.  "Ah.  The  gentle- 
man of  the  pistol,"  said  Ireton  with  interest.  With 
cold  steel  on  brow  and  spine  they  brought  him  to. 

Old  Skippon,  who  had  got  back  some  of  his 
breath  and  his  wits  came  puffing  forward  with  a, 
"Captain  Evans,  Captain  Daniel  Evans,  in  the  name 
of  God,  what  is  the  firing  at  Wheatley?" 

"The  Philistines  came  upon  us  in  force,  sir,"  said 
the  captain.  "I  know  not  the  issue.  Major  Har- 
rison, when  he  heard  the  firing  here,  dispatched  me 
unto  you." 

"Ah,  the  firing,"  said  Ireton. 

"Now,  this  is  a  damnable  thing,"  cried  Skippon. 
"They  would  murder  us  before  the  attack." 

By  this  time,  Colonel  Stow  was  tottering  on  his 
feet,  and  looking  all  round  him  with  dull  eyes. 

"There  is  the  craft  of  the  man  of  blood  in  it," 
cried  Cromwell.     He  turned  to  Fairfax.     "O,  slr> 


378  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

let's  to  horse  speedily.  We  do  the  Lord  wrong  to 
glory  yet!"  But  as  he  marched  to  the  door  his  eyes 
fell  upon  Colonel  Stow  and  he  checked  suddenly, 
staring.  There  was  something  familiar  to  him  in 
that  face. 

And  then  Colonel  Royston  came  striding  over  the 
dead.  He  had  no  doubt  of  Strozzi's  deed.  There 
had  been  fair  chance  and  full  time.  He  thought 
himself  supreme.  He  was  all  ready  to  snatch  com- 
mand. ...  In  one  swift  glance  he  saw  that 
he  had  lost,  that  he  had  sold  his  honor  for  nothing, 
that  peril  was  close  about  him.  He  did  not  fail  him- 
self. Not  a  muscle  moved  in  the  strong  dark  face. 
He  saluted  Fairfax.  "Sir,  this  is  surely  the  Lord's 
doing." 

"And  it  is  marvelous  in  our  eyes,"  said  Ireton, 
regarding  him  benignly, 

"Sir,  I  thank  God  for  your  escape.  Faith,  the 
whole  cause  hath  been  in  much  danger.  I  have  had 
the  whole  of  the  enemy's  horse  upon  my  posts  at 
Wheatley." 

"And  have  ye  beat  them  off?"  cried  Sklppon. 

"Sir,  the  Lord's  a  good  help." 

"O,  sir,  let's  give  Him  all  the  glory !"  cried  Crom- 
well, clapping  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  shall  try,"  quoth  Royston.  He  heard  some 
one  laugh,  and  turning,  saw  a  draggled,  dirty  fel- 
low in  the  grip  of  two  troopers.  Their  eyes  met. 
They  were  away  in  the  world  of  the  real.  Their 
souls  dealt  together  unveiled  and  quivered  with  re- 


THE    NIGHT   ALARM  379 

gret  and  scorn  and  shame  for  the  lost  sure  faith 
and  love. 

Cromwell  fell  on  his  knees  and  began  to  pray 
loudly. 

But  among  them  all,  Colonel  Stow  alone  bore  his 
head  unbowed. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-THREE 

MOLLY  PROPOSES 

T  N  the  publicity  of  the  Cornmarket  Molly  em- 
-^  braced  Matthieu-Marc,  whose  emotions  were 
rather  decent  than  grateful. 

"But,  mademoiselle,  nay  mademoiselle,"  he  cried, 
extricating  himself  with  energy,  but  with  difficulty. 
"I  assure  you  I  do  not  deserve  it." 

"But  you  have  been  working  for  my  sake,  sweet- 
heart," quoth  Molly,  languishing  at  him. 

"Not  at  all.     I  have  been  mending  my  breeches." 

"Sure,  that  was  for  my  sake,"  and  Molly  re- 
garded them  with  affection. 

Matthieu-Marc  fingered  the  patch  nervously  and 
nervously  looked  from  it  to  her.  "It  does  not  chime 
with  its  background,"  he  admitted.  "No,  it  is  cer- 
tainly not  beautiful.     But  it  is  necessary." 

"Like  me,"  said  Molly,  and  set  her  cake  basket 
on  one  arm  and  tucked  the  other  into  his  and  pro- 
pelled him  with  her  toward  Carfax,  like  a  jolly, 
round  body  of  a  woman  parading  a  reluctant  scare- 
crow. 

"My  pretty,"  said  the  reluctant  Matthieu-Marc, 
"this  is  not  seemly." 

380 


MOLLY    PROPOSES  381 

"Fie  now!"  cried  Molly.  "You  would  not  make 
me  do  unmaidenly,  would  you?  A  kind  gentle- 
man!" 

"Indeed,  I  would  not,"  Matthieu-Marc  protested 
with  tears  in  his  voice. 

"Why,  then,"  says  she  generously,  "I'll  never  be 
ashamed  with  you,  dearie." 

"You  will  understand,"  said  Matthieu-M,arc  un- 
easy in  her  vigorous  arm,  "that  my  situation  is  in- 
vidious." 

"Sure  it  is  sweet  in  you  to  say  so,"  Molly  mur- 
mured and  leaned  on  him  affectionately.  Matthieu- 
Marc  groaned. 

They  were  then  hailed  boisterously  by  a  shaggy 
sergeant  of  Sir  Marmaduke's  regiment.  "What, 
Molly !    Who  is  your  prop  ?" 

"This  is  my  new  husband,  bless  him !"  cried  Mol- 
ly with  pride.     "See  how  happy  he  is!" 

"Ods  bones,  it  would  take  two  of  him  to  make  you 
a  husband." 

"But  it  needs  only  half  of  me  to  make  him  a 
wife,  so  I  am  in  spirits.  Am  I  not,  sweetheart?" 
She  turned  to  the  hapless  Matthieu-Marc.  But  he 
fairly  fought  himself  free,  and  sped  round  the  cor- 
ner. 

"Good  lusty  fellow,"  the  sergeant  cried. 

"  'Tis  his  breeches,  poor  soul,"  said  Molly,  and 
returned  to  business,  and  after  so  fair  an  advertise- 
ment sold  many  cakes. 

She  was  going  home  to  fill  her  basket  again  when 


382  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

she  saw  Colonel  Stow  borne  by  the  provost  mar- 
shal to  Bocardo  and  stood  agape.  When  the  posse 
came  out  she  was  still  there.  "Lud,  master,  what 
hath  he  done,  poor  soul?"  says  she  to  one  of  them. 

"Made  a  face  at  the  King,  lass !" 

"Sure  a  cat  may  do  that" 

"But  he  is  none,  being  no  woman." 

Then  Molly's  trade  suffered,  for  she  was  more 
zealous  in  seeking  Alcibiade  than  in  selling  cakes. 
But  Alcibiade,  who  was  indulging  a  mind  that 
loved  the  rural  and  a  body  that  loved  running  wa- 
ter by  a  walk  over  the  meadows  to  bathe  in  the 
Cher  at  Marston,  was  not  found  till  sundown.  Lan- 
guid and  very  peaceful  he  sauntered  down  St.  Giles 
to  meet  a  warm  effervescent  Molly,  who  upbraided 
him  without  reason  given ;  stated  that  he  was  a  fool 
to  care  about  his  master;  that  his  master  was  six 
times  as  good  as  he;  that  his  master  was  in  prison 
for  cursing  the  King;  that  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done,  and  he  had  better  do  it  at  once  instead  of  mak- 
ing love  to  dairymaids. 

Through  all  which  Alcibiade  preserved  a  calm 
that  exasperated  her  extremely.  When  she  had  ex- 
hausted herself,  he  sauntered  on  with  his  original 
ease.  At  the  gate  of  Bocardo  she  beheld  him  in 
jovial  converse  with  the  gaoler  and  swore  she  hated 
him.  But  presently  his  pace  down  the  Cornmarket 
was  quicker. 

Alcibiade  had  little  luck.  From  the  gaoler  he 
learned  that  Colonel  Stow  had  been  taken  away  by 


MOLLY    PROPOSES  383 

Gilbert  Bourne.  Outside  Gilbert  Bourne's  quarters 
in  St.  Aldate's  he  saw  an  escort  under  arms  and 
by  them  was  told  that  Colonel  Stow  w,as  within.  He 
went  in.  But  again  he  was  too  late.  The  rooms 
were  bare.  He  did  not  publish  the  news.  Some  of 
the  fact  he  guessed  at  once.  Captain  Gilbert  Bourne 
helped  his  master  escape.  Tit  for  tat.  There 
was  but  one  way  of  escape — off  to  the  Puritans.  Al- 
cibiade  did  some  varied  drinking  with  sergeants  and 
quartermasters  and  learned  the  password  of  the 
night.  Then  he  took  himself  and  a  horse  out  over 
Magdalen  bridge  and  away.  But  he  was  still  out  of 
luck.  He  had  not  gone  two  miles  when  he  came  upon 
the  rear  of  Rupert's  horsemen.  He  could  not  pass 
them.  There  was  naught  to  be  learned  of  them. 
He  loitered  with  the  rearguard,  trying  to  find  some 
reason  in  it  all. 

When  they  crashed  on  the  outposts  at  Wheatley, 
when  relying  on  a  traitor  commandant,  politely 
ready  for  defeat,  they  charged  the  main  camp,  they 
hurled  themselves  into  a  trap.  Colonel  Royston 
had  been  careful.  His  dragooners  enfiladed  them  at 
close  range  and  shattered  them  utterly.  Alcibiade 
held  aloof.  It  was  no  affair  of  his.  But  he  did  not 
reckon  on  the  full  greatness  of  the  disaster.  The 
fresh  squadrons  Royston  hurled  at  the  shattered 
ranks  swept  them  back  like  dust  before  the  wind, 
and  in  the  rout  Alcibiade  was  caught  and  ridden 
down  and  lay  with  many  another  in  that  ghastly 
harvest  of  Colonel  Strozzi's  ingenuity. 


384  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  he  suffered  that  night 
as  much  as  Matthieu-Marc.  Matthieu-Marc,  being 
a  cook,  was  a  person  of  imagination  and  emotion. 
You  conceive  his  manifold  feelings  when  an  angry 
patrol  beat  out  Colonel  Stow's  quarters  and  in  two 
short  minutes  he  learned  that  his  master  had  been 
cast  into  prison,  had  got  out  of  it  and  vanished.  He 
sought  Alcibiade  half  the  night  through  and  found 
nothing  of  him  either.  He  wept;  he  abused  Alci- 
biade for  the  good  fortune  of  sharing  his  master's 
woes,  and  wept  again. 

The  morning  brought  worse  tribulation.  Rupert's 
battered,  decimated  horsemen  poured  into  the  town 
to  brag  that  they  had  been  betrayed.  Soon  the 
busybodies  of  Oxford — or  trace  it  if  you  will  to  my 
Lord  Digby — put  facts  together  to  make  a  tale  and 
presented  Colonel  Stow  as  an  infamous  traitor,  the 
very  murrain  of  the  King's  cause.  Matthieu-Marc 
had  to  hear  it.  He  expressed  his  immediate  emo- 
tion by  knocking  a  scrivener's  head  against  the 
tavern  wall,  and  after,  in  the  meditations  of  soli- 
tude, performed  the  like  operation  for  his  own.  He 
was  tumultuously  distressed. 

You  are  not  to  suppose  he  believed  anything 
against  his  master.  It  was  the  vision  of  a  slander 
attacking  his  master's  nobility  that  moved  the  foun- 
dations of  his  soul. 

He  was  a  cook  in  grain.  If  he  fell  an  easy  prey  to 
the  higher  passions,  he  had  a  keen  zeal  for  the  prac- 
tical. Now,  Colonel  Stow  had  fled,  but  left  his  goods 


MOLLY   PROPOSES  385 

behind  him.  Since  they  called  him  traitor,  they 
would  soon  lay  hands  upon  his  goods.  Plainly  it 
was  necessary  to  get  them  out  of  Oxford.  And 
whither?  There  was  but  one  place — the  father's 
house  at  Stoke  Mandeville.  And  when  the  prop- 
erty was  lodged  in  safety,  a  man  could  seek  out  its 
master.     Matthieu-Marc  began  to  pack. 

In  the  course  of  daily  business,  Molly  heard  from 
troopers  who  loved  sweets  that  they  were  beaten 
and  Colonel  Stow  a  traitor.  "Lud  be  kind,"  quoth 
Molly.  "It  needs  no  traitor  to  beat  you."  Concern- 
ing Colonel  Stow  she  had  truly  no  opinion.  Treason 
and  war  were  children's  games  that  did  not  interest 
her.  She  believed  in  him  for  other  matters.  And 
she  had  her  own  reasons  for  wanting  to  know  where 
he  was.     She  sought  out  Matthieu-Marc. 

He  was  in  Colonel  Stow's  quarters.  He  was  filling 
bags  and  baskets.  "Lud  a  mercy!"  cried  Molly. 
"What  art  doing?" 

Matthieu-Marc  with  every  desire  to  tell  a  He  felt 
circumstances  against  him.  "I — I  arrange  our  pos- 
sessions," he  said.     "I — I  dust  them." 

He  was  horrified  to  observe  Molly  subside  upon  a 
basket  with  distorted  countenance.  She  emitted  a 
wail. 

"My  pretty  soul !"  he  protested  pathetically.  "This 
is  quite  unnecessary.  Tell  me  in  what  way  you  are 
111?" 

"You  are  going  to  leave  me,"  Molly  lamented. 

"Alas !     Mademoiselle,  I  say  alas  !     I  mingle  my 


386  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

tears  with  yours.  But  we  must  bow  to  destiny."  And 
he  cheered  up. 

Molly  took  her  hands  from  her  rosy  face  and 
looked  at  him.  The  sight  appeared  to  increase  her 
grief,  for  she  ran  to  him  and  cast  her  arms  about 
his  embarrassed  neck.  "O,  I  can  not  bear  to  let  you 
go.     Can  you  bear  to  go  from  me?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Matthieu-Marc,  keeping 
as  far  off  as  he  could.  "But  I  have  to.  I  have  to 
go  to  my  master." 

"And  how  can  you  think  to  get  all  that  gear  past 
the  sentries?"  cried  Molly,  who,  being  at  least  half 
a  cook,  had  her  share  of  the  practical  mind.  "Why, 
they  call  your  colonel  a  traitor  in  every  alehouse. 
They'll  seize  every  dud  of  his.  They'll  strip  you 
bare  as  a  worm." 

"Let  them  essay!"  cried  Matthieu-Marc,  and, 
shaking  her  off,  struck  a  martial  attitude.  Then 
reflection  came  to  him,  and  he  relaxed  and  regarded 
her  dolefully. 

"Where  will  you  be  going,  my  dear?"  said  she. 

"To  his  father's  house  by  Stoke  under  Aylesbury. 
And  then  to  find  himself." 

"  'And  then  to  find  himself,'  "  Molly  repeated  in 
a  low  voice,  and  laughed.  Then  she  clapped  her 
hands,  crying,  "I've  a  plan!     I've  a  plan!" 

Like  most  of  the  higher  strategy,  it  was  simple 
enough.  The  miller's  man  from  Sandford,  who  sold 
Molly  flour  for  her  cakes,  had  a  kindness  for  her. 
("Another  unhappy!"  groaned  Matthieu-Marc.)  He 


MOLLY    PROPOSES  387 

would  be  in  Oxford  with  his  wagon  that  day.  Col- 
onel Stow's  goods  could  go  under  the  tilt,  Colonel 
Stow's  horse  be  ridden  by  the  miller's  man.  Mat- 
thieu-Marc  could  ride  under  the  tilt  with  the  bag- 
gage or  slip  out  alone. 

Matthieu-Marc,  who  had  the  cook's  distrust  of 
other  people,  elected  for  the  tilt,  and  so  it  was  done. 

All  went  smoothly.  The  good  folk  of  the  inn 
winked  at  the  wagon  and  the  miller's  steed,  but  they 
were  friendly  enough.  Matthieu-Marc  hid  himself 
effectively — it  was  not  hard  for  his  girth — and  with- 
out challenge  they  passed  the  bridge.  All  had  gone 
smoothly  as  a  butter  sauce,  thought  Matthieu-Marc, 
when  he  heard  with  stupefaction  the  jovial  voice  of 
Molly. 

Peeping  under  the  tilt  he  beheld  that  buxom  maid 
sitting  comfortably  on  the  shaft.  She  was  hooded 
and  girt  for  a  journey.  A  bundle  and  staff  reposed 
beside  her.  The  miller's  man,  crying  to  the  wa- 
goner at  the  head  of  the  team,  ranged  his  charger 
alongside.  "Do  'e  tell,  now,  Molly,"  said  he,  "who 
be  the  furriner?" 

"Sure,  who  should  he  be?"  cried  Molly.  "Would 
I  come  for  any  other  man?  'Tis  my  blessed  hus- 
band." 

"Haw,  haw,"  quoth  the  miller's  man. 

Matthieu-Marc  tore  his  hair. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOUR 

FRIENDS 

"X^  7HEN  the  last  word  was  said  to  Cromwell's 
■  '  prayer,  when  he  rose  with  shining  face,  it 
was  Ireton  who  thought  it  worth  while  to  give  spe- 
cial charge  that  Colonel  Stow  should  be  well  guard- 
ed. Royston  looked  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 
Colonel  Stow  was  bound  on  a  lame  horse  and  borne 
away  through  the  night  to  Thame.  Skippon,  that 
tough  veteran,  jogged  off  to  see  Royston's  disposi- 
tions and  go  the  rounds.  Cromwell  and  Fairfax 
let  themselves  think  of  sleep.  But  Ireton  still  peered 
about  among  the  dead. 

You'll  not  envy  Colonel  Stow  that  night.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  best  of  his  fortune  that  his  body 
cried  out  against  him  for  weariness  and  pain.  So  in 
some  measure  the  turbulent  misery  of  his  mind  was 
curbed.  But  he  was  whining  to  himself  of  his  ill 
fortune;  shame  for  his  weakness  burned  into  him, 
and  he  felt  himself  branded  with  dishonor,  dying  a 
villain's  death.  He  cursed  all  men  and  arraigned 
God. 

Doubtless  he  had  not  lost  all.  He  had  spoiled  the 
devices  of  King  Charles.     Against  all  odds  he  had 

388 


FRIENDS  389 

won  that  fight.  It  was  something  of  achievement 
to  take  down  to  death.  But  he  had  paid  for  it  dear. 
O,  there  was  a  malign  mockery  in  fate.  Every 
chance  and  change  of  circumstance  fought  against 
him.  When  he  ventured  his  all  for  an  honest  cause, 
when  he  worked  the  Puritans'  safety,  he  must  needs 
appear  their  assassin.  The  facts  condemned  him. 
No  truth  could  save  him,  for  who  could  believe  the 
truth  ?  Nay,  for  all  the  world  he  was  damned  as  a 
villain.  He  who  pretended  to  honor  and  the  soldier- 
ly heart  was  proven  no  better  than  a  hired  murderer. 
He  must  be  that  to  all  who  knew  his  name,  father, 
brother,  comrades,  friends,  a  vile  shame  to  them  all. 
It  hurt  him  ludicrously.  He  had  many  a  year  con- 
ceived himself  matter  for  pride.  He  let  himself 
laugh  like  a  man  under  the  knife.  The  good  souls 
for  whom  he  had  strutted  in  a  showy  chivalry — - 
God  save  them!  That  Puritan  parson's  daughter, 
who  thought  him  a  kind  of  god  .  .  .  that 
girl  of  the  pure  brow  .  .  .  would  she  be  at 
the  hanging?  At  least  she  would  know  him  for  a 
gaudy  hypocrite  and  a  villain. 

It  was  a  sweet,  comfortable  thought.  But  he 
made  it  come  again  and  again,  for  it  hurt  less  than 
the  rest.  The  rest  .  .  .  Ay,  at  least  he 
might  have  been  spared  George  Royston's  eyes. 
That  stung  beyond  other  pain.  What  he  had  lost — 
life  and  all  else;  what  the  world  proclaimed  him;  it 
irked  little  beside  that,  having  no  honor  to  wear 
before  the  friend  who  had  betrayed  him.     A  bravo 


390  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

of  the  camp,  a  hireling  for  murder;  he  was  that  to 
Royston  and  the  woman  .  .  .  the  woman.  He 
seemed  to  hear  them  laugh  together.  Lucinda  was 
not  merciful     . 

Mercy!  God,  he  was  fallen  low  to  think  of 
mercy  from  her!  But  he  was  crushed  with  shame. 
They  would  sneer  at  him  for  as  ready  a  traitor  as 
themselves  without  the  wit.  Fool,  fool,  fool!  O, 
God  be  good  to  a  man  who  wants  respect  from 
other  men !  He  had  set  his  soul  upon  that.  Though 
he  fought  for  a  failing  cause,  ay,  even  if  his  own 
designs  blundered  and  went  awry,  he  had  been 
proud  of  bright  honor,  resolute  to  guard  it  to  the 
end,  and  in  that  resolve  glad  of  life.  Glad!  He 
laughed  at  that,  so  that  the  Puritan  guards  rebuked 
him  for  a  lewd  man  of  Belial. 

O,  doubtless,  he  had  done  nothing  unworthy.  His 
honor  was  bright  still  for  his  eyes.  What  use? 
What  profit  for  a  man  to  be  honest  only  for  his  own 
soul?  With  each  nerve  jarred  and  torn  by  the  night's 
wild  chances,  with  his  mind  sick  of  effort  and  the 
rack  of  strife,  he  felt  common  hatred  crushing  his 
heart  out,  peine  forte  et  dure.  He  was  weak,  O  ay, 
he  was  weak.    Pray  God  for  the  refuge  of  the  weak. 

Surely  there  was  no  hope  of  good  in  life.  i^U 
things  conspired  against  him  with  devilish  craft. 
When  he  did  good  work,  it  was  broken  by  another's 
folly.  When  he  would  keep  his  cause  from  villainy 
he  was  hurled  into  the  mire  of  it.  When  he  would 
save  his  foes  from  death  they  branded  him  a  mur- 


FRIENDS  391 

derer.  No  hope,  no  hope,  save  to  be  out  of  it  all. 
Was  God  God  indeed,  or  the  devil,  in  this  world 
where  good  bore  the  fruit  of  vileness? 

Raving  so,  half  mad,  it  may  be,  with  the  body 
pain  and  weariness  and  the  impotent  rage  of  his 
baffled  mind,  he  was  borne  through  the  coldest  hours 
of  the  night.  The  Puritans  flung  him  into  the  town 
lockup  at  Thame  and  left  him  lying  on  a  truss  of 
straw.  Sleep  came  soon,  but  a  feverish  sleep  with 
a  devil's  dance  of  dreams. 

The  other  gentleman  whom  you  might  suppose 
most  troubled  by  the  chance  of  the  night  was  in  no 
such  case.  Colonel  Royston  had  seen  all  his  hopes 
go  down  the  wind.  His  generals  had  contrived  to 
keep  alive,  and  he  was  but  their  trusty  servant  still, 
and  like  to  stay  so.  A  man  could  not  play  such  a 
game  twice.  The  chief  command  was  out  of  reach. 
Between  him  and  it  stood  three  lives  at  the  least, 
each  as  good  as  his.  But  he  did  not  rage.  He  took 
the  turn  of  the  dice  with  a  shrug  and  a  silent 
oath  or  two  at  Strozzi's  bungling  throw.  One  mat- 
ter only  troubled  him — the  situation  of  Colonel 
Stow.  He  was  surprised  to  find  his  friend  in  such 
an  affair.  To  him,  indeed,  it  was  no  vast  villainy, 
but  he  could  not  well  conceive  Colonel  Stow  taking 
it  so  lightly.  There  was  no  doubting  his  eyes.  Colo- 
nel Stow  had  been  in  it,  and  being  a  person  of  im- 
portance must  know  all  about  it.  That  reflection 
worked  upon  Colonel  Royston. 

If  you  expect  emotion  of  him,  you  will  be  much 


392  COLONEL    GREATHEART  " 

disappointed.  It  was  in  the  nature  of  the  man  that 
he  should  not  stop  to  feel  when  there  was  need  of 
thought  and  action.  Only  twice  in  his  life,  I  think, 
a  passion  bore  him  away  from  the  plain,  practical, 
profitable  task,  and  for  each  time,  it  may  be,  he  was 
afterwards  sorry.  His  first  concern  was  to  secure 
his  own  safety.  But  he  had  his  feelings.  If  he 
could  contrive  Colonel  Stow's  as  well,  he  would  be 
the  better  pleased. 

Since  Jerry  Stow  had  been  fool  enough  to  be 
captured,  there  would  surely  be  some  inquest  on 
him.  In  that  was  danger.  He  knew  all,  and  it 
might  well  be  for  his  profit  to  tell  all.  Colonel  Roy- 
ston  felt  himself  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss  and  looked 
down  at  it  calmly.  You  should  do  him  justice.  He 
would  venture  something  for  his  friend.  But  his 
own  danger  was  instant.  Once  he  thought  of  a 
trick  to  set  Colonel  Stow  free  that  night.  It  was 
alluring,  for  so  he  linked  their  fortunes,  so  he 
served  both,  so  with  a  fair  appearance  of  friendship 
he  provided  for  himself.  But  he  dared  not.  He 
was  too  near  suspicion  already.  What  then?  Sup- 
pose a  court  martial  met  and  Ireton's  lawyer  brain 
at^vork.  All  the  plot  was  like  to  come  out.  Colonel 
Stow  could  have  no  profit  in  telling  less  than  the 
truth.  Himself  had  been  taken  in  the  fact.  He  was 
not  likely  to  spare  others.  Nay,  why  should  he? 
Royston  sneered  at  himself.  Faith,  the  man  had 
small  reason  for  kindness.  It  should  be  some  pleas- 
ure in  his  ruin  to  drag  Royston  down,  too. 


FRIENDS  393 

Colonel  Royston  confronted  the  situation  a  while, 
hunched  together  over  a  camp-fire,  and  at  last  saw 
a  way.     He  lay  down  in  his  cloak  and  slept  at  peace. 

You  find  him  early  in  the  morning  standing  over 
the  straw  that  made  Colonel  Stow's  bed.  His  strong, 
dark  face  moved  queerly  as  he  looked  down  at  that 
storm  wracked  body — the  clothes  all  dragged  awry, 
slashed  and  stained,  the  matted  hair,  the  blood  and 
filth  on  the  bruised  cheek.  .  .  .  He  set  his 
hand  on  Colonel  Stow's  shoulder.  It  moved  wear- 
ily. Colonel  Stow  turned  over  ,and  looked  up  at 
him  with  heavy,  dull  eyes,  muttered  something, 
stretched  his  limbs  painfully  and  staring  still  at 
Royston,  sat  up  on  his  straw.  "Well?"  he  said  in 
.a  listless  voice. 

Colonel  Royston  sat  down  beside  him. 

He  laughed.  "Faith,  this  is  a  condescension  in 
the  soldier  of  the  Lord." 

"O,  I  am  not  come  for  jests,"  cried  Royston. 

Colonel  Stow  laughed  again  on  the  same  high 
note.  "I'Gad,  I  am  sorry  for  it.  There  is  much 
matter  of  jesting  here." 

"Look  you,  Jerry.  I  know  well  enough  I  have 
dealt  scurvily  by  you.  I  can  not  give  you  the  past 
again.     By  God,  I  would  that  I  could — " 

"I  thank  you,  O,  I  thank  you.  Pray  enjoy  the 
present." 

"Enough  of  that.  Man,  think  where  we  stand, 
you  and  I.     We  are  both  on  the  brink  of  peril." 

"Both?    What  has  your  majesty  to  do  with  me?" 


394  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Zounds,  why  will  you  talk  like  a  fool  of  a  wit? 
You  can  make  me  smart,  I'll  allow  you  that.  You 
have  the  right,  too.  But  now  we  have  to  think  of 
our  lives." 

"Is  that  all?"  said  Colonel  Stow.  "You  may  have 
mine." 

Royston  swore.  "We  can  win  through  yet,  if 
you'll  have  sense.  O,  I  know  you  can  hang  me  if 
you  blab.  Maybe  you  would  like  to,  and  by  God, 
I  could  not  blame  you  for  it.  But  if  you  hang  me, 
you  hang  yourself.     No  man  but  me  can  save  you." 

Colonel  Stow  Laughed.  "Kind  sir,  conceive  that 
I  want  no  salvation." 

"Faith,  Jerry,  I  have  been  a  bad  friend  enough, 
but  I  swear  I  am  true  now.  For  the  sake  of  old 
days — the  old  days — hear  me  out.  They  will  have 
a  court  martial  for  you.  Let  this  be  your  tale:  You 
know  naught  of  any  plot  of  murder.  You  know 
naught  of  any  treason  here.  You  were  bidden  only 
to  join  in  a  night  surprise  and  you  came  with  the 
rest.  Then  I'll  strike  in  and  swear  I  know  your 
honor,  and  you'd  not  mingle  in  aught  ignoble  or 
unsoldierly,  and  I'll  bring  you  off." 

All  the  while  Colonel  Stow  was  staring  steadily. 
"No  treason  here?"  he  repeated.  "No  plot  to  mur- 
der? What  talk  is  this?"  Royston  saw  contempt 
come  in  the  grave  eyes.  "Ah,  you  were  the  rogue 
let  Strozzi  through  the  outposts,"  he  said  and 
laughed.      "I  might  have    known.      There    would 


FRIENDS  395 

hardly  be  two  of  your  kidney.  I  make  you  my 
compliments." 

Royston  swore.  "O,  curse  your  foppery.  I  am 
what  I  am.    But  you  were  deep  in  the  murder,  too." 

Colonel  Stow  laughed  again.  "Well,  I  do  not 
look  for  you  to  understand.  Good  sir,  conceive  that 
my  enduring  comfort  is  to  have  spoiled  your  plot. 
And  prithee,  be  gone.  You  are  something  nauseous." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  growled  Royston,  flush- 
ing.    "What  were  you  doing  with  Strozzi  ?" 

"I  preserved  you  both  from  the  sin  of  murder. 
Try  to  be  grateful." 

Royston  took  a  step  back  and  glowered  down  at 
him.     "You  came  to  spoil  us?"  he  muttered. 

"And  in  fact  I  did  spoil  you." 

"Zounds,  it  can  not  be!"  cried  Royston.  Colonel 
Stow  shrugged. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  care  what  you  believe?" 

"Why,  then?"  Royston  stammered.  "What  are 
the  generals  to  you?     How  is  it  your  affair?" 

"Good  sir,  you  are  not  able  to  understand." 

"Ods  heart,  you  do  not  spare  me  much,"  Royston 
muttered  and  flung  back  his  head  like  a  beast  in 
pain.  Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "What!  It  was  you 
fired  those  shots  then?"  Colonel  Stow  smiled  and 
heard  Royston  grit  his  teeth.  "Hollendonner!  How 
I  cursed  the  fool  that  did !  What  a  pox  was  it  to 
you,  then?     Had  you  fallen  out  with  Strozzi?" 

"Nay,  I  find  Strozzi  less  a  rogue  than  others." 


396  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Royston  frowned  heavily.  "What  in  hell  is  it 
then?    Are  you  out  with  King  Charles  at  last?" 

"O,  sir,  it's  not  within  your  understanding." 

"Ay,  you  would  have  your  stroke  back  at  me," 
Royston  muttered  and  strode  up  and  down  the  room. 
"You'd  break  up  my  plan.     Od  damn  me,  it's  fair." 

He  was  arrested  by  Colonel  Stow's  laugh,  and 
turned  glaring.  "Pray  believe  that  you  count  for 
nothing,"  said  Colonel  Stow.  "I  knew  of  you  as 
little  as  I  care." 

There  was  silence  a  long  time,  and  far  apart  the 
two  men  eyed  each  other,  Royston  in  his  sturdy  sol- 
dierly neatness.  Colonel  Stow  in  his  rags  and  his 
dirt  Royston's  swarthy  face  was  working  and' 
shadows  passed  his  eyes.  But  Colonel  Stow  was  all 
calm  and  he  smiled  with  a  sneer.  "Well?"  said 
Royston  hoarsely. 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "O,  be  at  ease!  You  may 
live  for  me.     You  make  me  proud." 

Royston  came  close.  He  looked  long  into  those 
grave  eyes  that  wore  neither  love  nor  hate.  He  felt 
the  iron  of  scorn.  .  .  .  Muttering  something 
he  flung  away  to  the  door.  It  was  long  before  he 
could  make  it  open.  Then  he  turned  to  look  again 
at  his  friend.  He  saw  that  sneering  smile  again. 
He  groaned  and  hurried  out. 

Colonel  Stow  leaned  back  on  his  straw,  not  much 
the  happier.  He  had  conquered  indeed,  if  that  were 
anything.  They  had  come  soul  to  soul  and  it  was 
not  he  who  had  been  humbled,  if  that  brought  any 


FRIENDS  397 

comfort  To  him  the  right  and  the  joy  of  scorn. 
He  conquered.  I'gad,  it  was  a  sweet  triumph.  The 
man  who  had  fought  with  him,  taken  life  of  him, 
who  had  been  more  than  blood  brother,  ranked  with 
Colonel  Strozzi's  hired  murderers.  Sure,  that  must 
be  heartening.  Before  the  man  had  played  him 
false,  but  this  was  a  far  blacker  depth  of  villainy. 
Why,  the  fellow  even  bore  to  whine  and  pray  for 
life.  His  soul  turned  sick  with  loathing.  That, 
that  was  the  best  of  a  friend  he  had  won.  Sure, 
life  was  worth  while! 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE 

COLONEL  STOW  IS  READY 

TN  the  morning,  in  Holton  House,  the  lieutenant 
■*-  general  expounded  scripture.  The  commissary 
general  honored  him  with  the  seraphic  gaze  of  one 
whose  thoughts  are  far  away.  The  general  was 
not  pretending  to  listen.  The  sergeant  major  gen- 
eral was  stealthily  gone. 

The  lieutenant  general  was  moved  to  song  and 
Fairfax  shifted  uneasily. 

Woe's  me  that  I  In  Meshec  am 

A  sojourner  so  long, 
Or  that  I  in  the  tents  do  dwell 

To  Kedar  that  belong. 

"Lo,  you  then !"  says  he  with  indignation.  "Do 
I  speak  vain  words  for  a  pretense,  even  as  the 
Pharisees  use?  Nay,  brethren,  verily.  Where  is 
my  dwelling  place?  Even  in  Meshec,  which  is  be- 
ing interpreted,  'Prolonging,'  for  the  Lord  prolong- 
eth  my  trial.  Even  in  Kedar,  which  signifieth 
'Blackness,'  for  I  dwell  in  the  blackness  of  my  own 

398 


COLONEL  STOW  IS  READY    399 

sin.  Yet  of  a  surety  the  Lord  forsaketh  me  not.  O, 
sirs,  let's  make  a  joyful  noise!  Though  He  do 
prolong,  though  my  sins  be  as  scarlet,  yet  He  will, 
I  trust,  bring  me  to  His  tabernacle.  My  soul  is 
with  the  Congregation  of  the  Firstborn,  my  body  is 
stayed  upon  hope.  Verily,  verily,  no  poor  creature 
hath  more  cause  to  give  thanks  than  L  I  have  had 
plentiful  wages  beforehand,  and  I  am  sure  I  shall 
never  earn  the  least  mite.  The  Lord  hath  accepted 
me  in  His  Son  and  given  me  to  walk  in  the  light. 
He  it  is  that  lighteneth  our  blackness.  O,  sirs,  one 
beam  in  a  dark  place  hath  exceeding  much  refresh- 
ment in  it.  Blessed  be  His  Name,  for  shining  upon 
so  dark  a  heart  as  mine!" 

Fairfax  crashed  his  fist  on  the  table.  "The  more 
I  think  of  it,  the  more  damnable  a  thing  it  is,"  he 
cried. 

Cromwell  gasped.  "Woe  unto  me,  woe  unto  me, 
that  you  should  say  so !"  and  he  beat  his  breast. 

Fairfax  was  much  embarrassed.  "Good  lack,  sir, 
I  mean  nothing  against  you.  I  was  not  heeding  your 
very  godly  words.  My  mind  was  upon  the  surprise 
of  last  night." 

Ireton  woke  up.     "A  strange  business,  sir." 

"Most  surely  a  vile  plot,"  cried  Fairfax.  "Surely 
they  designed  to  murder  us,  that  they  might  fall  on 
a  masterless  army." 

"You  are  marvelous  acute,"  said  Ireton  with 
something  of  a  sneer.  He  did  not  love  discoverers 
of  the  obvious. 


400  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"I  would  that  I  knew  what  villain  planned  it," 
said  Fairfax. 

"Verily  he  Is  drunken  with  the  blood  of  the 
saints!"  said  Cromwell  in  the  tones  of  inspiration. 

"We  will  hold  strict  inquiry  of  this  prisoner," 
Fairfax  went  on.  "Ay,  faith,  I'll  question  him 
roundly,  and  have  the  truth  out  of  him  before  I 
hang  him."  Ireton,  who  had  seemed  about  to  speak, 
said  nothing,  "We  meet  at  noon,  then,  gentlemen." 
They  saluted  and  he  left  them. 

"There  goes  the  honestest  head  in  England,"  said 
Ireton. 

Cromwell  marked  the  tone.  "You  speak  with 
two  tongues,  Henry." 

"Why,  sir,  none  but  a.  very  honest  soul  would  give 
a  trial  to  the  man  he  has  sentenced  already." 

"What!  Would  you  spare  the  Amalekites?  His 
blood  be  upon  his  own  head !  I  would  have  hewn 
him  down  last  night" 

"And  to-night  you  would  be  sorry." 

"What  do  you  mean,  lad?" 

"Are  you  riding  into  Thame,  sir?  Then  let  us 
ride  even  unto  the  Amalekite." 

What  the  commissary  said  upon  the  road  you 
may  judge  by  what  he  said  to  Colonel  Stow. 

The  better  by  the  use  of  a  pail  of  water.  Colonel 
Stow  stood  at  the  grating  of  his  cell,  trying  to  see 
the  sunlight  and  the  sky.  Ireton  came  in  with 
Cromwell.  Colonel  Stow  turned.  "You  will  come 
before  a  court  martial  at  noon,  sir,"  said  Ireton, 


COLONEL  STOW  IS  READY    401 

watching  him  keenly.  Cromwell  stood  off  a  little 
way. 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.     "Is  that  necessary?" 

"You  have  nothing  to  hope,  then?" 

"Nay,  sir,  I  have  nothing  to  fear."  Ireton's  eyes 
were  keen,  but  it  was  not  they  that  made  him  change 
his  place.  He  felt  the  trenchant  steel  gaze  of  Crom- 
well. 

"Death,"  said  Ireton. 

"I  thank  you  for  that,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  and 
laughed  again. 

"Fellow,  you  have  met  me  before,"  cried  Crom- 
well. 

"I  had  the  honor  to  upset  Your  Excellency  in 
Newbury  market." 

"Ay,  but  you  were  on  an  honest  venture  then." 

"And  now  an  assassin,"  said  Colonel  Stow  gaily. 

"Are  you?"  said  Ireton,  and  paused  a  moment. 
"Come,  sir,  be  plain  with  us.  If  we  thought  you  no 
better  than  you  seem,  we  had  not  taken  the  pains 
to  seek  you  out.  You  can  make  your  case  (I  tell 
you  frankly)  no  worse  than  it  is.  But  I  profess  I 
believe  the  truth  may  serve  you.  Let  us  have  it, 
then.     Who  planned  this  affair  of  last  night?" 

Colonel  Stow  caressed  his  moustachio.  "You 
found  me  an  assassin,  I  do  not  think  you  will  find 
me  a  traitor." 

"Be  not  deceived !"  Cromwell  thundered.  "God  is 
not  mocked." 

"Truly,  sir,  no.     Nor  are  you  God." 


402  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"I  should  be  glad  to  know  of  whom  you  took  your 
orders?"  said  Ireton. 

"I  do  not  doubt  it  the  least,"  said  Colonel  Stow 
amiably. 

Ireton  linked  and  unlinked  his  fingers,  watching 
steadily.  "I  should  be  glad  to  know — by  what  road 
you  came  to  Holton  House?  Where  you  passed 
our  outposts?" 

"But  I  can  not  express  how  little  I  want  to  tell 
you." 

"Man,  man !"  cried  Cromwell.  "Are  you  ready 
to  die?" 

"God  knows,  sir.     But  I  have  no  desire  to  live." 

"Bethink  you  of  the  damnation  of  hell !" 

"Sir,  it  can  be  no  more  disappointing  than  the 
damnation  of  life." 

Cromwell  made  a  gesture  of  casting  him  off.  "You 
do  not  take  us  friendly,  sir,"  said  Ireton  in  mild 
complaint. 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "Dear  sir,  it  is  not  my 
vocation." 

"And  yet  you  stood  our  friend  last  night,"  said 
Ireton  sharply,  and  was  not  sure  whether  Colonel 
Stow  hesitated  a  little. 

"Why,  if  you  can  believe  that,  you  can  believe 
anything,"  laughed  Colonel  Stow. 

"Pray,  why  did  you  fire  those  shots?" 

"Each  moment  I  regret  more  heartily  that  I 
missed  you." 

"You  were  not  firing  at  us." 


COLONEL  STOW  IS  READY   403 

Colonel  Stow  appeared  amazed.  "Good  sir,  do 
you  think  me  out  of  my  wits  ?  Prithee,  was  I  shoot- 
ing at  the  popinjay  or  the  morning  star?" 

Ireton  frowned.  "Do  you  tell  me  you  came  to 
murder  us?" 

"Does  your  intelligence  need  telling?" 

"I  think  you  are  strangely  anxious  to  be  hanged, 
sir." 

"Sir,  conceive  that  I  ask  nothing  of  you  and  will 
take  nothing  from  you.     I  have  done." 

"Then,  sir,  by  my  faith,  this  tone  means  death." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Colonel  Stow, 

Ireton  stood  looking  at  him  a  long  while,  his 
brow  bent,  striving  plainly  with  an  enigma.  Crom- 
well plucked  at  his  arm  and  they  went  out. 

Ireton  began  to  speak  and  checked  himself. 
"What  now?"  said  Cromwell. 

"Sir,  I  doubt  I  have  been  wrong.  It  is  naught 
but  a  reckless  bravo  who  values  his  own  life  cheap 
as  another's." 

"Say  you  so?" 

"I  profess  I  have  no  kindness  for  this  levity.  Sure, 
sir,  it  is  a  worthless  soul  that  spends  itself  on  witty 
answers  in  the  hour  of  death." 

"I  have  seen  a  man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted 
with  grief,"  said  Cromwell. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SIX 

LUCINDA  IS  LOGICAL 

^~^  OLONEL  Royston  was  gone  to  his  wife's  lodg- 
^-^   ings. 

Lucinda  came  to  him  quickly.  She  was  just  risen. 
A  loose  gown,  all  gray  green  like  apple  leaf,  gave 
him  the  warm  comeliness  of  her  neck  and  all  her 
grace.  Her  eyes  shone  softly  like  flowers  in  the 
dew.     Her  rich  hair  hung  all  unbound. 

Royston,  who  sat  huddled  together,  his  head  on 
his  hand,  turned  and  looked  at  her  and  laughed. 

"Well,  sir?"  she  said  eagerly,  her  cheeks  flushed, 
her  hand  upon  her  trembling  bosom.  "Is  it — do  I 
belong  to  a  conqueror?" 

"What  were  you  ever  for  but  yourself?" 

She  came  a  step  nearer,  leaning  toward  him,  and 
her  eyes  began  to  flame.  "Have  you  failed?"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice. 

He  laughed  again.  "You  have  failed,  madame. 
You  are  beaten."  There  was  something  of  hate  in 
his  grim  mirth.  "I'gad,  I  do  not  know  that  I  am 
sorry." 

She  had  drawn  back.     "Failed!"  she  said. 

"Ay,  madame,  failed.  We  have  sold  our  souls 
404 


LUCINDA    IS    LOGICAL  405 

for  nothing.  The  murderers  were  beat  off.  The 
generals  are  safe  as  you.  I  am  no  more  than  the 
colonel  I  was  yesterday.  Or  less,  if  they  fix  sus- 
picion on  me.  Ods  life,  it  would  be  amusing.  Which 
man  would  you  fawn  on  then?" 

"Failed !"  she  said.  "O,  I  have  been  a  fool !"  Her 
cheeks  were  pale  again  and  seemed  to  have  fallen 
thin ;  her  lips  drawn  back  so  that  he  saw  her  teeth ; 
her  eyes  blazed  with  a  tawny  light.  "You — ^you  dog 
— what  I  have  given  you !" 

Royston  made  a  great  roar  of  laughter.  "Ha! 
Does  it  tickle  you  so?  Are  you  moved,  madame;  are 
you  moved?"  He  came  to  her  in  one  swift  stride 
and  took  her  bare  arms  in  his  grip.  She  tried  to 
wrench  them  free,  struggling  this  way  and  that, 
panting,  biting  her  lips.  But  the  swarthy  hands  only 
bit  harder  into  her  flesh  and  he  smiled  down  in  her 
mad  eyes.  "Do  you  guess  who  balked  us?  Who 
has  beaten  you?     Your  dear  love,  Jerry  Stow." 

"Stow?"  she  gasped.  The  straining  muscles  were 
limp  in  his  hand ;  her  face,  her  neck,  were  all  crim- 
son; her  eyes  shrank  from  his;  her  bosom  rose  and 
fell  in  long  shuddering  waves ;  he  saw  beads  of 
sweat  come  upon  her  brow. 

"Ay,  I  am  glad  that  you  can  suffer,"  he  said  and 
let  her  go. 

She  sank  down  on  a  chair  and  hid  her  face.  "Tell 
me,"  he  could  hardly  hear  the  words.  "What  was 
it?    How?    How?" 

"O,  it's  a  sweet  tale  for  us.     Strozzi  found  his 


406  COLONEL    GREATHEART  ^ 

way  safe  enough  and  caught  them  at  Holton  fairly. 
But  Jerry  Stow  chose  to  make  himself  of  the  party. 
God  knows  why — whether  the  thing  offended  his 
righteousness — he  is  Quixote  enough — or  he  wanted 
to  have  his  revenge  on  us — he  has  blood  in  him.  At 
least  he  spoiled  the  whole.  I  think  he  started  them 
fighting  among  themselves.  I  know  there  were 
shots.  Harrison's  horse  heard  and  a  troop  of  them 
came  at  speed.  When  I  rode  up  all  Strozzi's  fel- 
lows were  fled  or  dead  and  old  Cromwell  putting  up 
a  psalm.     There's  your  noble  plot,  madame." 

"Where  is  he?"  she  said  hoarsely. 

Royston  flushed.  "You  have  an  affection  for  him 
now,  have  you?  You'd  go  back  to  his  arms?  Be 
easy.    He  would  not  take  you !" 

She  gave  a  queer,  cruel  laugh.  "Affection?  I 
would  that  I  saw  him  dead." 

"Ay,  you  ever  had  strange  ways  of  love,"  said 
Royston,  watching  her  eyes. 

"Will  you  torture  me?"  she  cried,  stamping  her 
foot.     "Where  is  he?    Where  is  he?" 

"That  is  the  cream  of  the  whole,"  said  Royston. 
"He  was  the  only  one  of  them  taken  alive.  The  gen- 
erals count  him  one  of  the  murderers.  They  have 
him  in  guard  here." 

She  drew  in  her  breath.  Her  cheeks  were  dull 
white  and  her  bosom  still.  "Then  he  can  tell  all," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice.    "He  can  ruin  us." 

Royston  Laughed.  "Yes,  we  are  proudly  placed. 
We   professed   him   love   and   friendship   and   be- 


LUCINDA    IS    LOGICAL  407 

trayed  him.  Then  we  go  on  in  villainy  till  we  have 
to  whine  to  him  to  hide  it  and  spare  our  noble  lives. 
Mercy  of  him !  By  God,  madame,  you  have  made 
me  honor  myself!" 

There  was  wonder  in  her  eyes.  "What  is  all 
this?"  she  said  with  honest  surprise.  "Why  do  you 
play  at  words?  If  he  blab  to  the  Puritans  we  are 
undone." 

"Faith,  you'd  not  easily  find  another  husband." 

"O,  words,  words,"  she  cried  with  an  impatient 
gesture.  "What  is  to  be  done,  fool?  Have  you  no 
resource?" 

"Ay,  madame.  You  shall  be  laden  with  me  yet 
some  while.    We  are  safe  enough." 

She  waited  a  moment,  looking  at  him  full.  "How 
then  ?" 

Royston  gave  a  wretched  laugh.     "I  have  seen 

him.     I  asked "  the  voice  was  unsteady  and  he 

swore  vehemently — "I  asked  him  to  spare  us."  Lu- 
cinda  broke  out  laughing  and  pointed  the  finger  at 
his  shame.  "Devil,  do  you  take  it  so?"  he  mut- 
tered. 

"Well,  and  how  did  the  saintly  soul  answer?" 

"Ods  blood,  I  could  wish  he  had  bidden  us  to 
hell!"  cried  Royston.  "Be  at  ease,  madame.  We 
concern  him  no  more  than  any  other  ill  vermin.  He'll 
not  strike  at  us.  He'll  be  silent.  He'll  spare  us. 
That  is  his  revenge.  By  God,  he  could  take  none 
crueler." 

"Fool,"  said  Lucinda  smiling,  "fool.     Yes,  I  see 


4o8  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

him  in  that.  Silly,  mad  Quixote.  So  he'll  be 
hanged,  then  ?" 

With  some  hoarse  cry  Roystpn  strode  to  her, 
flung  one  arm  about  her  and  caught  her  throat  in 
his  grip  and  crushed  her  with  ruthless  strength. 
"You  fiend!"  he  said  hoarsely,  and  she  bit  her  lip 
for  the  pain.  But  she  put  her  arms  round  him  and 
while  he  hurt  her,  clung  to  him  close.  At  that  he 
flung  her  ofT. 

She  stayed  herself  against  the  wall,  panting, 
breathless,  still  all  grace.  "Do  you  like  to  know  he 
is  alive?"  she  said,  laughing. 

Royston  turned  away  with  a  groan. 

She  ran  to  him  and  cast  her  bare  arms  about  his 
neck  and  circled  him  with  lithe,  fair  strength  and 
clung  to  him  and  kissed  him.  A  little  while  he 
struggled  to  put  her  off.  .  .  .  He  failed  and 
she  had  her  will. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SEVEN 

COLONEL   STOW   IS    AWAKED 

''  I  ^HE  story  of  the  night  passed  from  lip  to  lip, 
-*-  and  the  army  was  in  a  frenzy  of  scriptural 
wrath.  Colonel  Stow  became  Judas  Iscariot,  which 
had  dwelt  in  Sodom,  and  must  meet  the  doom  which 
David  devised  for  the  people  of  Rabbah.  The  good 
townsfolk  of  Thame  were  calmer.  They  chattered 
with  delighted  interest  of  the  chances  and  changes 
and  how  all  was  done  and  what  might  have  been — 
speculations  which  gave  them  sweet  thrills  of  terror. 

It  was  with  blent  sections  of  romance  and  fervor 
that  the  tale  came  to  Joan  Normandy  in  the  hospital. 
She  heeded  little  at  first.  She  had  her  work.  But  a 
tawny  sergeant  of  Desborough's  coming  to  have  his 
head  dressed  woke  her  heart.  "And  they  do  say," 
says  he,  "that  the  lewd  fellow  they  have  taken  is 
own  brother  to  our  Major  Stow  and  as  like  him  as  a 
twin.  Which  I  wunnot  believe.  For  there  be  sheep 
and  there  be  goats."  His  head  was  dressed  in  a 
hurry. 

Joan  Normandy,  In  trembling  haste,  with  a  wild 
medley  of  hope  and  fear  clashing  in  her  heart, 
sought  out  David  Stow.   She  was  beginning  a  march 

409 


4IO  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

to  his  regiment's  camp  at  Shabbington  when  she 
found  him  riding  in  with  other  officers.  He  did  not 
see  her;  he  was  distraught  amid  the  talk  of  the 
others,  and  she  cried  out :  "Sir,  I  have  an  errand  to 
you." 

He  checked  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  saluted  and 
drew  apart. 

She  awaited  him,  wide-eyed,  lips  parted.  "Is  it 
your  brother?"  she  breathed. 

David  Stow  flushed.  "Will  you  come  to  the 
house?"  he  said  and  keeping  his  horse  to  her  pace, 
rode  beside  her  without  word  spoken. 

So  they  came  back  through  the  shade  of  the 
churchyard  limes  and  round  to  the  wide  street.  It 
was  a  gay  morning  of  mellow  sunlight.  When  he 
dismounted,  his  wife  came  running  to  the  door, 
smiling  glad  as  her  name.  But  he  was  very  grave. 
"Why,  I  think  Joan  is  always  to  bring  you  to  me !" 
she  cried,  holding  out  for  Joan  both  hands. 

"Come  in,"  said  David  Stow  gravely. 

They  were  hardly  in  that  neat,  light  room  before 
Joan  moved  from  Joy's  a»m  and,  "Tell  me!"  she 
cried,  her  voice  quivering,  "Is  it  your  brother?" 

"It's  true,"  said  David  Stow. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  cried  fiercely.  "He 
was  in  the  attack?    He  is  taken ?" 

"He  is  taken.  He  was  of  the  murderers,"  said 
David  Stow. 

Blood  surged  to  her  cheeks.  "It  is  a  lie!"  she 
cried. 


COLONEL   STOW    IS    AWAKED      411 

"I  would  give  my  life  that  it  were,"  said  David 
Stow. 

"How  dare  you  say  it?"  Joan  cried,  all  aflame. 

"Would  to  God  that  I  could  say  other — that  I 
could  believe  other !  What  way  is  there?  He  came 
with  a  party  stealthily  by  night,  fell  upon  the  gen- 
erals. What  is  it  but  murder?  He  was  taken  in  the 
fact.  The  thing  is  patent  li  there  were  but  sus- 
picion— if  there  were  but  doubt — "  he  made  a  ges- 
ture of  despair. 

Joan  was  struggling  for  words.  "I — I — how  dare 
you?  I  can  not  endure  it!  How  dare  you  say  so? 
O,  a  brother  should  love  him  and  honor  him.  And 
you,  if  you  have  not  heart  enough  for  that,  sure  you 
know  him.  You  must  know  him.  He  would  not  do 
basely.     He  could  not." 

David  Stow  shook  his  head.  "He  was  taken  in 
the  act,"  he  said  in  a  wretched  voice. 

"Can  you  say  nothing  but  that?"  cried  Joan 
Normandy.     "Have  you  seen  him?" 

"What  use?"  groaned  David  Stow. 

"O,  no  use,  if  you  are  so  well  content  now.  No 
use  if  you  long  to  think  him  base.  But  what  if  he 
have  another  tale  to  tell?  Will  you  let  him  be 
branded  with  this  shame?" 

David  Stow  looked  at  her  miserably.  His  wife's 
eyes,  too,  were  full  of  tears.  "O,  child,  I  can  not 
blame  you.  I  protest  to  God,  It  wounds  me  no  less. 
He  was  very  near  to  me.  But  what  help  is  there? 
The  thing  is  plainly  a  murder  and  he  was  among 


412  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

them  that  wrought  it.  O,  he  hath  been  miserably 
beguiled  by  that  vile  court.  .  ,  .  We — we 
must  pray  for  him." 

"Pray  for  him !"  cried  Joan  with  such  scorn  that 
the  soldier  shrank  back.  Her  bosom  swelled.  She 
seemed  to  tower  above  him.  "Ay,  truly,  let  us  pray 
— let  us  pray  for  false  friends  and  cowardly  love 
and  feeble  faith.  I  would  that  you  were  in  his 
place.  He  would  show  you  a  man's  part  then.  You 
— ^you  pray !"  There  was  a  moment  of  angry,  scorn- 
ful laughter,  then  in  a  whirl  she  was  gone. 

Husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other  and  she 
fell  on  his  breast,  sobbing  terribly,  "Joan — my  poor 
Joan." 

But  if  it  be  true  that  who  wants  no  pity  needs 
none,  they  should  have  spent  none  upon  Joan.  She 
knew  no  pain.  Her  heart  beat  with  a  wild  delight. 
She  could  no  more  think  him  false  than  herself  false 
to  him.  Throbbing  to  the  vehement  surge  of  life, 
passionate  with  faith  in  the  good  rule  of  God,  all 
glad  and  strong  of  heart,  she  could  not  fear  his  con- 
demnation. Surely  the  truth  must  be  known  and 
his  honor  proved.  And  now,  now  that  he  was  cap- 
tive and  forsaken  of  all,  now  she  might  go  to  him 
without  shame.  She  was  almost  glad  of  his  trouble 
if  it  let  her  serve  him.  At  least  she  might  see  him, 
look  in  his  eyes,  give  him  heart  in  his  loneliness. 

She  had  no  trouble  with  the  guard  at  the  prison. 
Her  nurse's  gown  was  warrant  and  half  the  army 
knew  her  well  enough  to  honor  her. 


COLONEL    STOW    IS    AWAKED      413 

Colonel  Stow  sat  at  ease  on  his  straw  humming 
some  scrap  of  a  ballad — 

Cold's  the  wind,  and  wet's  the  rain, 

St.  Hugh  be  our  good  speed! 
Ill  is  the  weather  that  bringeth  no  gain, 

Nor  helps  good  hearts  in  need. 

And  he  laughed. 

The  grating  of  the  lock  did  not  arrest  him.  There 
could  be  no  messenger  of  good.  A  clear  voice  rang 
through  the  fog  of  despair,  "I  give  you  good  mor- 
row, sir." 

Colonel  Stow  started  up  and  she  gave  a  little  cry 
of  grief.  Though  he  had  done  his  best  with  him- 
self, he  was  still  something  of  a  wreck.  The  slashed, 
stained  clothes,  the  bruised  cheek  and  brow,  told  her 
of  the  pain  of  the  night.  But  he  held  himself  gal- 
lantly. He  was  the  soldier  still.  "I  am  at  your 
service,  madame,"  he  said  gravely. 

She  held  out  both  hands  to  him  as  if  she  had  some 
wrong  to  atone.  "You  are  hurt.  And  I  had  forgot 
of  that.    Can  I  help  ?" 

"  'Tis  all  a  show,  child,"  said  Colonel  Stow  with 
a  crooked  smile.  He  did  not  take  her  hands.  "It 
affects  others  vastly  more  than  me." 

"Truly  so?"  she  said,  doubting,  disappointed. 
"You  should  trust  me.  I  have  some  skill  in  heal- 
mg. 

"I  can  well  believe  it,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  looking 


414  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

down  at  her  with  grave,  gentle  eyes.    "But  you  must 
not  waste  it  on  me." 

-  "Waste?     I  who  owe  you  life  and  dearer  things 
than  life?    You  know  that  I  do." 

Colonel  Stow  shrugged.  "I've  canceled  that  debt, 
child." 

"Have  I  let  you?"  said  Joan,  meeting  his  eyes 
steadily. 

"Nay,  you  must  pay  it  to  a  truer  man." 

The  blood  leaped  to  her  brow.  "You  dare  not  say 
it!"  she  cried.     "It  is  a  wickedness!" 

"Is  it  so?"  said  Colonel  Stow  listlessly,  concerned 
for  his  own  emotions,  not  hers.  "I  mean  the  best  for 
you.  Believe  me,  madame,  if  you  knew  what  I  am 
you  would  not  linger  here." 

"I  come  because  I  know,"  she  said  quietly. 

Colonel  Stow  moved  a  little.  "Have  you  all  the 
story,  madame?"  he  said  in  a  changed  voice,  and  his 
eyes  were  set  and  intent,  roused  at  thought  of  his 
own  plight. 

"No,  not  all." 

"Ah!"  He  drew  in  his  breath  and  the  voice  fell 
listless  again.  "Go,  get  it  told.  You  will  not  come 
back." 

"I  will  hear  it  of  you,  sir." 

"You  shall  hold  me  excused,"  cried  Colonel  Stow. 

"And  why?" 

He  flung  back  his  head.  "Because,  madame — be- 
cause I  am  not  longing  to  give  you  pain." 

"I  can  endure  it,  sir,"  she  said  quietly. 


COLONEL    STOW    IS    AWAKED      415 

Colonel  Stow  forced  a  laugh.  "You  make  me 
mighty  vain-glorious,  child.  I  profess  I  am  not  now 
so  fond  of  myself." 

"O,  sir,  then  you  do  wrong,"  said  Joan  in  a  de- 
mure voice. 

It  startled  him.  "Faith,  I  am  glad  to  amuse  you," 
he  said  savagely.  His  nerves  were  raw.  "You 
shall  have  more  mirth.  Listen !  In  the  dark  of  the 
night  a  company  of  hired  bravos,  whereof  I  was 
one,  came  to  murder  your  generals.  We  came  near 
to  succeed.  But  a  troop  of  your  horse  overcame  us, 
slew  many  and  scattered  the  rest.  I  was  taken 
alive." 

"I  knew  all  that,"  said  Joan  quietly,  looking 
straight  into  his  eyes. 

"You  knew?"  Colonel  Stow  repeated,  staring 
stupid  surprise.  "You  came — you  held  out  your 
hands  to  me — you  knew?" 

"Do  you  think  I  believed?"  she  said  angrily. 
"What  do  you  think  me  then  ?  Did  you  doubt  your- 
self?" 

Colonel  Stow  was  silent  a  while.  "God  forgive 
me,  I  did,"  he  said  slowly. 

She  gave  a  little  scornful  laugh.  "You !"  she 
she  said.  "You !"  and  held  out  her  hands  again. 
Colenel  Stow  took  them  and  kissed  them.  She 
pressed  them  against  his  lips.  "For  me — for  me — 
you  may  tell  me  the  rest  or  not  as  you  will.  It  is  so 
little  matter.     I  know." 

Colonel    Stow  let  fall  her  hands.     "I    have    no 


4i6  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

right,"  he  muttered  and  turned  a  little  away.  "I 
have  no  right." 

She  laughed  miserably.  "Why,  then  I  am  shamed 
indeed,"  she  said  and  then  cried  out.  "What  is  it 
you  mean  ?    Tell  me !" 

Colonel  Stow  came  close  to  her.  "Child,  you 
must  see.  I  have  little  chance  of  life  and  no  honor 
left  me.  Truly,  you  put  trust  in  me  yet,  but  who 
else  is  there?  It  is  but  a  strange,  fabulous  tale  I  can 
tell  and  if  it  will  save  me  at  the  court  I  doubt.  Surely 
it  will  never  clear  me  to  the  world.  If  I  live  it  is  for 
a  known  knave,  an  assassin.  I  p-rofess  I  want  no 
such  life  as  that.     I  had  rather  make  an  end." 

"You  dare?"  she  cried  fiercely.  "O,  'tis  better  to 
be  red  with  sin  than  to  be  afraid  of  life.  Honor,  do 
you  say  ?  And  shall  it  be  no  honor  to  bear  the  dis- 
honor of  men  ?  O,  sir,  I  think  no  manhood  is  proven 
save  after  the  manner  of  Christ,  which  was  op- 
pressed and  was  afflicted,  yet  went  on  His  way  do- 
ing good.  Is't  not  truest  honor  to  be  held  dishonora- 
ble among  men,  yet  do  always  the  works  of  honor? 
Is  not  that  true  strength  and  the  way  to  win  glory 
of  God?" 

Colonel  Stow  drew  away  from  her.  There  was 
new  wonder  and  reverence  in  his  eyes.  But  she,  all 
rosy  and  trembling  with  a  pure  passion,  her  own 
eyes  shining  through  tears,  saw  nothing  of  that. 
Colonel  Stow  bowed  his  head.  "You  are  braver 
than  I,  child,"  he  said. 

While  they  stood  there  silent,  she  watching  him 


COLONEL    STOW    IS    AWAKED      417 

as  a  mother  yearns  over  a  child,  the  door  was  flung 
open  with  a  clatter  and  a  sergeant's  guard  broke  in. 
"You  fellow,  you  are  to  come  before  the  court!  Hey  ! 
What  is  your  work  here,  nurse?" 

Colonel  Stow  stood  erect.  "What  is  ever  a  nurse's 
work,  good  fellow?" 

"A  corpse  is  not  worth*  it,"  quoth  the  sergeant. 
"March!" 


CHAPTER  FORTY-EIGHT 

A  HUSBAND  OR  SO 

'VT'OU  have  to  lament  for  Benaiah  Jones,  corporal 
-*-  of  horse,  a  victim  of  early  rising.  When  Alci- 
biade  was  ridden  down  in  the  route  of  Rupert's 
horsemen  he  lay  stunned  and  much  bruised.  He 
waked  to  life  again  in  the  dawn  with  Benaiah  Jones 
fumbling  at  the  pockets  in  the  region  of  his  stom- 
ach. Benaiah  Jones  was  upon  the  godly  errand  of 
spoiling  the  Amalekites,  and  such  was  his  zeal  that 
he  rose  before  dawn  to  prevent  riches  falling  into  the 
hands  of  unrighteousness.  It  happened  that  Alci- 
biade  was  ticklish.  He  woke  to  see  the  fat  jowl  of 
Benaiah  close  above  his  own.  His  disgust  is  reason- 
able. He  expressed  it  with  passionate  zeal  in  a  blow 
at  Benaiah's  chin.  If  he  had  had  his  whole  strength 
Benaiah  would  hardly  have  risen  again.  It  sufficed 
to  bring  him  oblivion.  Benaiah  clucked  a  little  and 
became  livid. 

Alcibiade  sat  up  and  blinked.  He  ached  in  vari- 
ous places,  but  laborious  experiment  failed  to  find  a 
fracture.  He  considered  possibilities.  It  was  in  the 
first  place  not  a  possibility  to  sit  still.  The  next 
saintly  plunderer  might  well  have  steel  ready.     But 

418 


A    HUSBAND    OR    SO  419 

it  was  hardly  a  possibility  to  tell  where  to  go. 
Colonel  Stow  rfiight  be  in  .a  hundred  places  in  the 
world  or  even  out  of  it.  If  anything  might  be  prob- 
able, he  was  probably  with  the  Puritans  or  dead. 
Alcibiade,  who  was  a  sanguine  person,  preferred  to 
believe  in  the  Puritans,  and  remembered  then  that 
the  Puritans  had  at  least  Colonel  Stow's  brother,  a 
pleasant  if  respectable  person.  Alcibiade  elected  for 
the  brother. 

So  you  find  him  limping  up  to  the  Puritan  out- 
posts and  enquiring  after  Major  David  Stow.  He 
was  bitterly  questioned  and  his  answers  so  wildly 
ingenious  that  they  sent  a  guard  with  him  to  Shab- 
bington.  David  Stow,  as  you  have  seen,  had  gone 
to  Thame.  So  that  it  was  late  before  the  surly  escort 
presented  him. 

David  Stow  looked  the  plump,  bedraggled  figure 
up  and  down.    "What  do  you  want  of  me?" 

"My  master,"  said  Alcibiade. 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  him?" 

"You  have  the  honor  to  be  his  brother." 

David  Stow  made  an  exclamation.  Then  to  the 
escort :  "Wait  you  without.  I  will  answer  for  him," 
and  when  the  door  was  shut:  "Now,  good  fellow, 
when  did  you  leave  him  ?" 

"Smoking  his  pipe  after  yesterday's  dinner,  sir,  in 
his  quarters  in  Oxford.  I  came  back  at  dusk  to  find 
he  Is  thrown  into  prison.  Why?  For  quarreling 
with  the  King,  they  say.  I  go  as  you  would  your- 
self to  take  him  out  of  prison  and  find  that  he  is 


420  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

escaped.  You  remember  a  M.  Gilbert  Bourne,  whom 
he  rescued  from  you?  Bien!  M.  Gilbert  Bourne 
had  rescued  him  from  the  King  and  they  were  away 
together.  Whither?  I  followed  them  on  to  Wheat- 
ley  and  came  upon  Rupert  and  was  ridden  down  in 
the  rout.  I  have  but  lately  come  to  my  wits  and  seek 
you  to  seek  him."  He  looked  with  surprise  at  the 
swift  emotions  changing  on  David  Stow's  face. 

"Thrown  into  prison  by  the  King?"  David  Stow 
repeated.  "He  would  scarce  be  seeking  a  desperate 
service  for  him  then.  God,  what  does  it  all  mean  ?" 
A  triple  chime  of  the  quarter  hours  rang  over  the 
town.  He  started  up.  "Nay,  come,  come,  they  have 
been  trying  him  long."  And  he  hurried  Alcibiade 
to  the  door. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  said  Alcibiade  with  dig- 
nity.   "Who  has  the  insolence  to  try  my  master?" 

"Man,  there  was  a  company  of  murderers  at- 
tacked our  generals  last  night  and  my  brother  was 
taken  among  them." 

Alcibiade  became  stately.  "Permit  me  to  tell  you, 
sir,  that  you  are  mad  or  you  lie." 

"I  am  mad,  I  think,"  cried  David  Stow.  "Come, 
come,  you  must  tell  them  all,"  and  hurried  him  into 
the  house  of  my  Lord  Williams,  where  the  court  was 
sitting. 

It  is  necessary  to  consider  also  the  other  gentle- 
man in  whom  Molly  was  interested,  a  gentleman  of 
more  peaceful  fortunes,  but  hardly  less  distressed,  a 
victim  of  unrequited  love. 


A    HUSBAND    OR    SO  421 

As  the  shadows  lengthened  in  the  first  of  the  aft- 
ernoon, Mr.  Stow,  astride  a  full-barreled  cob,  rode 
back  from  his  barley.  Out  of  the  diamond  eye  of 
the  sun  a  miller's  wain  was  coming  to  meet  him.  In 
front  thereof  marched  a  lean  man  and  a  girl  in  no 
part  lean.  They  were  plainly  at  violent  argument, 
being  further  exhorted  by  a  man  on  horseback  be- 
hind them.  Mr.  Stow,  with  more  surprise  than 
pleasure,  beheld  them  turn  by  his  yew  hedge  and 
av/ay  to  the  yard.  He  arrived  to  find  the  lean  man 
unloading  bundles  from  the  wain,  while  the  lady 
assisted  him  with  affection. 

"What  a  pox !"  said  Mr.  Stow,  not  without  excuse. 
"Hey,  you  are  the  Frenchman  who  kissed  my  cook." 

"Never!"  cried  Matthieu-Marc,  while  Molly 
wailed  the  faithlessness  of  men.  "I  am  the  brother 
of  all  good  cooks.    But  yours — no,  she  has  no  soul." 

"Then  why  do  you  come  here,  my  friend?" 

"In  few  words,  sir,  hear  a  sad  tale.  I  am  the 
servant  of  your  son.  I  can  declare  that  I  live  only 
for  him.  Last  night  my  colonel  was  cast  into  prison 
by  the  King.  Why?  I  do  not  know.  He  swiftly 
escaped  and  fled  from  Oxford,  Remained  his  prop- 
erty. Lest  that  should  be  seized  I  removed  it  by 
strategy.     Sir,  it  is  here  in  your  guard." 

Mr.  Stow  said  something  to  himself.  "And  where 
will  Colonel  Stow  be  gone  then,  my  lad?" 

"Helas,  monsieur,"  said  Matthieu-Marc,  turning 
up  his  eyes. 

"Well,  who  knows?"  said  Mr.  Stow  to  himself. 


422  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

and  drew  a  long  breath.  He  has  not  a  hasty  mind. 
Keen  and  kindly  he  looked  at  Molly.  "She  will  not 
be  my  son's  property?" 

Matthieu-Marc  coughed.  "The  lady  informs  me, 
sir,  that  she  is  my  wife." 

"And  you?" 

"It  would  be  ungraceful  to  deny  it,"  said  Mat- 
thieu-Marc. 

Molly  made  a  courtesy  in  his  direction  and  a  more 
serious  one  for  Mr.  Stow» 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  said  he,  "you  will  be  fasting." 
He  shepherded  Molly  and  the  miller's  man  before 
him,  but  Matthieu-Marc  lingered.  When  they 
turned  by  the  kitchen  door  Matthieu-Marc  on  his 
master's  horse  was  already  some  way  down  the  road. 
He  waved  his  hand  through  the  sunshine. 

Mr.  Stow  stood  still,  gazing  at  him  till  he  became 
a  black  speck  against  the  glare.  Then  he  wiped  his 
eyes.  "Sure,  he  is  a  dear,"  said  Molly  beside  him, 
"and  I  could  wish  he  were  not." 


CHAPTER   FORTY-NINE 

COLONEL   ROYSTON    DELIVERS    HIS    SOUL 

N  a  long,  low  room  of  dark  beam  and  wainscot 
Sir  Thomas  Fairfax  had  gathered  his  officers. 
The  sunlight  breaking  through  the  hundred  dia- 
mond panes  of  the  casements,  woke  the  scarlet  and 
steel,  made  the  shadows  gloom  black,  played  quaint- 
ly about  the  stern  jaws  of  holiness.  Fairfax  had  the 
head  of  the  table,  his  pleasant  dark  face  resolute  and 
something  self-satisfied.  To  the  right  Cromwell 
leaned  his  head  on  his  hand  and  fidgeted  and  mut- 
tered scraps  of  Scripture  to  himself.  Ireton  was  be- 
side him,  frowning  and  scribbling  over  much  paper. 
Upon  the  other  side  old  Skippon  sat  and  yawned. 
There  was  Lambert,  the  square-headed  Yorkshire- 
man,  and  Fleetwood's  lean  fervor,  and  Desborough 
of  the  honest  yokel's  face,  and  Ludlow  and  Whalley 
and  the  ruddy,  comely  Harrison — every  officer  of 
note  in  the  army.  By  Ireton — no  comfortable  neigh- 
bor— sat  Colonel  Royston,  heavy  and  still,  his  full 
face  set  in  hard  lines. 

"Gentlemen,  there  is  no  need  of  much  words," 
said  Fairfax  in  his  loud  frank  voice.     "Myself  was 

423 


424  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

at  council  with  the  lieutenant  general  and  the  com- 
missary and  the  sergeant  major  at  Holton  last 
night  when  a  company  of  bullies  set  about  us  and 
butchered  the  good  fellows  that  were  with  us  .and 
came  so  near  ourselves  that  but  for  a  troop  of 
Colonel  Harrison's  we  had  been  sped.  It  was  at  the 
same  time  that  the  King's  horse  fell  upon  our  lines 
in  a  hot  .attack,  wherein  we  have,  under  God,  to 
thank  Colonel  Royston's  dispositions  of  his  dragoon- 
ers.  Sirs,  it  is  plain  this  is  all  a  horrid  plot.  They 
would  murder  your  generals  and  assault  ,a  master- 
less  army.  One  of  the  fellows  that  beset  us  hath 
been  taken.  We  have  him  here  and  I  doubt  not  3/ou 
will  be  short  with  him." 

There  was  a  mutter  of  assent.  Ireton  looked  up 
from  the  paper  whereon  he  had  been  drawing  some- 
thing not  unlike  Colonel  Stow.  "And  with  your 
leave,  sir,  we  may  learn  of  him  who  was  behind  this 
plot ;  whether  the  knowledge  of  a  thing  so  damnable 
touches  any  in  high  places." 

That  hint  at  the  King  was  relished.  There  was 
muttering  and  Harrison  cried  out:  "Verily,  verily, 
he  is  drunken  with  the  blood  of  the  saints." 

"This  thing  is  a  low  villainy,"  said  Fairfax,  witli 
some  disdain.  Respect  for  royal  persons  was  bred  in 
him.     "Bring  the  man  in." 

Colonel  Stow  came  in  between  two  pikemen  and 
saluted  the  court,  looked  calmly  round  upon  eyes  of 
contemptuous  hate. 

"Your  name,"  said  Rushworth,  the  secretary. 


ROYSTON    DELIVERS    HIS    SOUL     425 

"Jeremiah  Stow,  lately  Colonel  of  Horse  in  the 
King's  army." 

"Sir,"  says  Fairfax,  "I  think  you  were  of  a  party 
that  made  a  murderous  attack  on  myself  and  other 
gentlemen  last  night  ?" 

"It  is  within  the  knowledge  of  many,  sir." 

"And  this  was  no  fair  act  of  war,  but  patently 
murder?" 

"I  do  not  deny  it." 

Fairfax  sat  back  in  his  chair.  "Do  we  need  more, 
gentlemen  ?"  he  said,  with  contempt. 

"Nay,  for  it  is  written,  'smite  Amalek  and  utterly 
destroy,'  "    said    Fleetwood    with    unction. 

"It  is  also  written  that  sinners  make  haste  to  shed 
blood,"  said  Ireton  sourly.  "And  by  your  leave,  sir, 
I  need  some  little  more."  Fairfax  waved  his  hand. 
"Sir,  'tis  within  your  knowledge  that  none  of  us  bore 
pistols,  having  left  the  same  in  our  holsters."  Fair- 
fax nodded.  "Yet,  of  the  fellows  who  were  slain 
last  night  two  have  bullet  wounds,  the  which  I  re- 
marked to  the  sergeant  major." 

Skippon  rolled  in  his  seat.  "And  so  it  is.  But 
there  never  was  a  fight  without  strange  happenings." 

"So  that  plainly  there  were  shots  fired  by  another 
hand  than  ours.  And  these  were  not  let  off  at  us  in 
a  venture.  No  man  who  sought  to  do  a  secret  mur- 
der would  do  it  by  pistol  fire.  These  shots  were 
meant.  I  think  Colonel  Harrison  will  tell  the  court 
it  was  the  sound  of  the  firing  roused  him  to  send  his 
troop  to  Holton." 


426  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"You  speak  the  truth,"  said  Harrison. 

"Therefore,  I  present  to  the  court  that  the  man 
which  fired  those  shots  had  another  design  than  our 
murder." 

"He  stands  there,"  said  Cromwell,  pointing  with 
big,  red,  bony  hand  across  the  table  to  Colonel  Stow. 

Colonel  Stow  saluted.    "I  thank  you,  sir." 

"This  is  something  fine  weaving,  methinks,"  said 
Fleetwood  with  a  sneer. 

"The  commissary  goes  back  to  his  old  trade," 
quoth  Lambert.  "This  is  a  lawyer's  tale.  Another 
lawyer  would  answer  it  all  in  a  moment.  The  man 
was  taken  with  red  hands  in  a  murder.  What's  all 
the  rest?  Whoever  knew  a  fight  where  no  bullet 
went  awry?  This  man  was  fool  enough  to  fire  and 
fool  enough  to  shoot  amiss,  as  he  hath  been  fool 
enough  to  be  taken  alive.  His  folly  hath  spoiled 
their  villainy.  But  I  protest  I  have  no  more  mercy 
for  a  fool  than  another." 

"That  surprises  me  in  Colonel  Lambert,"  said  Ire- 
ton  blandly. 

"Nay,  but  there  was  never  a  fight  without  strange 
happenings  in  it,"  said  Skippon,  "and  I  can  not  tell 
why  they  should  save  a  rogue." 

There  was  a  loud  murmur  of  assent.  They  were 
not  looking  for  innocence.  Lambert's  heavy,  blunt 
arguments  crushed  the  lawyer's  subtleties;  indeed, 
no  soldier  was  likely  to  need  more  than  the  plain 
tale.  One  of  the  murderers  lost  his  head — fired — 
was  captured.     It  was  more  like  truth  than  any  re- 


ROYSTON    DELIVERS    HIS    SOUL    427 

finement.  It  carried  them  away.  Ireton,  glancing 
round  the  table,  reckoned  the  verdict  with  keen  eyes 
and  shrugged.  He  looked  curiously  at  Colonel  Stow, 
who  surprised  him  by  a  smile. 

Colonel  Stow  saluted  Fairfax.  "Sir,  I,  too,  have 
something  to  say." 

"Why,  how  now?"  cried  Cromwell  with  a  start, 
and  Ireton  began  to  caress  his  chin. 

"It  is  your  right,"  said  Fairfax. 

Royston  moved  heavily  and,  turning  at  the  sound, 
Colonel  Stow  saw  his  face  and  its  agony.  It  hardly 
inclined  him  to  mercy.  But  for  the  sake  of  old  years, 
for  his  own  pride,  for  a  hundred  mingled  memories 
and  desires,  he  could  not  give  Royston  to  death. 
There  was  another  whose  shame  must  be  covered. 
Gilbert  Bourne  had  taken  him  from  prison  to  save 
the  King's  honor  and  for  the  King's  honor  died.  His 
own  faith  was  pledged  to  the  dead.  The  King's  part 
could  not  be  told.  For  the  rest  he  was  free  and 
would  fight.  He  began  to  speak  and  Royston's  eyes 
were  set  on  him  in  a  grim  stare  of  pain. 

"Sir,  I  thank  you.  I  bear  a  name  of  some  honor 
among  you  and,  though  I  be  your  foe,  I  have  never 
brought  shame  upon  it.  I  would  call  to  witness  your 
officers  who  have  had  passages  with  me  that  I  have 
ever  observed  the  right  rules  of  war." 

Then  Fairfax  cried  out:  "Faith,  I  remember 
you !    You  were  in  that  affair  by  Towcester." 

"I  think,  sir,  I  lost  no  honor  by  it?" 

"Sir,  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  here." 


428  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Colonel  Stow  bowed.  "Well,  sir,  you  recall  that. 
In  this  present  I  thank  the  commissary  general  for 
his  honorable  testimony.  I  will  make  a  plain  tale 
short.  Yesternight  in  Oxford  an  officer  of  the 
King's  guard,  Captain  Bourne,  came  to  me  with  the 
news  that  an  Italian  bravo,  Strozzi,  had  ridden  out 
on  this  venture  of  murder.  It  was  plain  to  Captain 
Bourne  and  myself  that  such  a  plot  must  bring 
shame  on  the  King's  cause,  the  which  we  had  in 
high  regard.  But  the  fellow  was  gone  and  we  could 
not  stay  him  by  orders,  nay,  it  was  but  a  chance,  of 
riding  at  the  best  of  our  speed,  we  could  reach  you 
in  time  to  balk  him.  I  do  not  pretend,  sir,  that  we 
had  any  peculiar  kindness  for  you.  We  sought  to 
preserve  our  cause  from  the  infamy  of  this  foul 
deed.  Riding  ventre  a  terre,  we  came  something 
rashly  upon  the  Italian's  troop  and  in  the  affray 
Captain  Bourne  was  slain.  He  lies  by  the  roadside 
on  Shotover.  Before  he  died  he  bade  me  ride  on  for 
the  honor  of  the  King.  Sir,  I  did  my  possible.  I 
caught  up  Strozzi's  company  as  they  were  running 
in  upon  Holton  House.  It  was  over  late  to  warn 
you.  I  fought  for  you.  I  did  what,  under  the  provi- 
dence of  God,  sir,  was  your  salvation.  I  would  have 
you  remark  there  were  shots  fired  before  Strozzi 
came  within  the  house.  They  were  mine.  I  had 
four  pistols,  my  own  and  my  friend's,  and  they  were 
all  shot  off  before  I  was  beaten  down.  Pray,  remark 
again,  it  was  not  Colonel  Harrison's  troop,  nor  your 
swords,  but  Strozzi's  own  men,  that  smote  me.    That 


ROYSTON    DELIVERS    HIS    SOUL    429 

is  all,  sir.  Let  me  say,  whatever  befall  me,  I  did  my 
part.     I  saved  you." 

"With  a  very  pretty  tale,"  Lambert  sneered. 

"Let's  have  less  of  worldly  honor  and  more  of 
God's  righteousness,"  said  Fleetwood. 

"Wherein  lies  the  one  way  of  thriving,"  said  Har- 
rison, with  unction.  "O,  sir,  let's  not  be  beguiled 
with  the  glories  of  man's  seeking,  which  are  a  fleet- 
ing show." 

"Let's  abide  by  our  business,"  said  Ireton  sharply. 
"Come,  sir,  this  was  well  said  and  I  tell  you  plainly 
it  suits  well  with  what  I  have  seen.  But  we  must 
have  more.  You  heard  of  the  plot  in  Oxford.  Did 
you  hear  who  made  the  plot?" 

"Captain  Bourne  told  me  of  none  but  Strozzi.  We 
knew  him  for  a  fellow  of  no  scruple." 

"Ah,  Strozzi,"  said  Ireton,  with  a  curious  intona- 
tion, "and  who  stood  behind  Strozzi?" 

"How  can  I  tell?"  said  Colonel  Stow,  with  a 
shrug.    "He  is  a  fellow  that  works  in  the  dark." 

"Do  you  know  who  devised  the  plan?" 

"On  my  honor,  sir,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  with  some 
relief,  "no.     It  is  like  Strozzi  himself." 

"Do  you  know  any  but  Strozzi  who  knew  his  de- 
sign?" 

Colonel  Stow  hesitated  a  long  while,  staring  at 
the  ground.  This  was  the  very  thing  he  feared,  but 
he  had  not  looked  for  such  damnable  directness. 
Well !  He  was  pledged.  He  would  guard  the  honor 
of  those  who  themselves  would  not  guard  it.     It  ill 


430  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

became  him  to  blab.  "Sir,  I  am  here  to  answer  for 
my  own  part,  not  others,"  he  said  slowly. 

Ireton  made  an  impatient  sound.  "I  ask  you 
again,"  he  cried.  "Do  you  know  of  any  but  Strozzi 
who  knew  the  plot?"  Colonel  Royston  moved  nois- 
ily In  his  chair. 

"I  have  answered  that,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"I  warn  you,  sir,"  cried  Ireton  angrily,  "you  do 
yourself  wrong.  Deceit  is  your  worst  enemy.  Sub- 
tlety shall  ruin  you.  Integrity  never  will.  Will  you 
speak?" 

"I  will  speak  anything  of  myself,"  said  Colonel 
Stow. 

"I  ask  you  a  last  time.  I  do  solemnly  profess  to 
you,  you  have  no  hope  but  in  telling  all.  Who  was 
in  this  beside  Strozzi  ?" 

"I  have  answered." 

"And  I  have  done!"  Ireton  cried  petulantly,  and 
flung  himself  back  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  gave 
up  the  affair.  But  Royston  was  swaying  to  and  fro 
in  his  seat. 

"It  was  time,"  quoth  Lambert.  "The  rogue  is  but 
playing  with  us." 

"Make  short,  make  short!"  cried  Harrison.  "Let 
him  be  turned  back  for  a  reward  of  his  shame." 

Fairfax  leaned  forward  again.  "Do  you  say  more, 
sir?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"I  have  done,"  said  Colonel  Stow.  "It  is  not  here 
I  am  judged." 

"I  give  you  little  hope,"  said  Fairfax  and  signed 


ROYSTON    DELIVERS    HIS    SOUL    431 

to  the  sergeant  of  the  guard.     But  Cromwell    was 
muttering  and  trying  to  speak. 

They  were  leading  Colonel  Stow  out  when  Roy- 
ston  sprang  to  his  feet.  His  chair  went  crashing 
down.  He  stood  erect,  the  biggest  man  by  far,  crim- 
son, with  flashing  eyes.  "No,  by  God,  no!"  he 
roared.  "I'll  deliver  myself."  He  strode  heavily 
down  the  room,  spurs  and  sword  clanking,  and  halt- 
ed in  Colonel  Stow's  place.  "I'll  give  you  light, 
sirs.  Why  is  he  silent?  Why  is  he  choosing  death? 
To  keep  safe  a  villain  that  once  he  called  friend.  He 
would  die  for  me.  By  the  blood  of  God,  I  am 
bigger  than  that !  Hark  ye !"  There  was  little  need 
of  that,  for  he  held  them  like  men  in  a  trance. 
"Colonel  Stow  and  I,  we  were  true  friends  for  a 
dozen  years  till  I  betrayed  him.  We  were  both  with 
the  King.  I  forsook  him  for  my  own  profit  and  for 
my  own  profit  sought  to  ruin  him.  The  lieutenant 
general  will  recall  how  I  bought  honor  of  him  with 
news  of  a  King's  convoy.  It  was  my  friend's  com- 
mand. I  came  with  a  treachery,  and  with  a  treach- 
ery I  go.  I  did  not  rise  fast  enough  in  your  army. 
Ay,  gentlemen,  I  am  a  better  soldier  than  any  man 
of  you,  save  one,  though  you  have  not  the  wit  to 
know  it.  Well.  I  wanted  a  higher  place.  Ods 
heart,  I  was  worth  it.  There  came  to  me  this  devil 
Strozzi  with  a  few  thousand  pounds  if  I  would  put 
him  in  the  way  to  kill  off  the  generals  so  that  Ru- 
pert could  have  us  at  advantage.  I  took  him.  It  was 
I  gave  him  news  of  your  Holton  council.  It  was  I 


432  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

prescribed  him  a  way  through  the  outposts.  And 
yet,  by  God,  you  shall  do  me  reason !  It  was  not  the 
money  I  needed.  I  would  have  given  him  no  vic- 
tory. You  know  who  beat  off  Rupert  last  night. 
With  the  generals  down  who  would  have  been  mas- 
ter of  the  army  to-day?  Ask  yourselves  that,  gen- 
tlemen!" He  hurled  at  their  amazement  a  rough 
laugh  of  defiance.  "But  for  Colonel  Stow  I  had 
done  it.  Those  damned  shots  of  his  saved  you,  as 
they  spoiled  my  plan.  Faith,  you  may  thank  your 
God  for  him.  Do  you  think  there  is  another  Quixote 
in  the  two  armies  mad  enough  to  spend  himself  to 
save  his  foes?  By  Heaven,  I  had  bubbled  you  all  but 
for  him!"  He  turned  on  Colonel  Stow  with  reck- 
less eyes.  He  had  put  off  shame  now.  He  was  his 
own  master.  Colonel  Stow  saw  him  smile.  "Ay,  he 
has  thrown  me.  I  am  beat.  And  now,  so  please 
you,  he'd  take  my  shame.  .  .  .  Curse  me,  I 
have  some  soul,  too."  He  plucked  at  his  belt  and 
loosening  it,  flung  sword  and  all  clashing  down. 
"There's  what  no  man  of  you  is  man  enough  to  take 
against  my  will !"    And  he  laughed  at  them  again. 

It  was  his  hour.  He  mastered  them.  The  grim, 
saintly  Puritans,  who  knew  no  fear  of  less  than  God, 
whom  no  reward  would  have  suborned  to  his  treach- 
ery, they  shrank  before  him.  His  stark,  rough 
strength  mocked  at  them  in  wanton  delight  of  itself. 
In  that  storm  of  wild  vigor  their  virtue  was  abashed. 
Some  one  muttered  of  that  old  serpent  Satan  and 
Royston  stood  there,  towering  above  them  heavy  and 


ROYSTON    DELIVERS    HIS    SOUL     433 

tall,  the  mellow  sunlight  falling  quaintly  on  his 
drawn  brow  and  the  full  dark  face  gave  them  the 
contempt  of  a  mocking  god.  They  dared  nothing. 
He  was  far  above  them  all.  Even  Colonel  Stow  at 
his  side,  watching  him  with  a  great  love,  was  little 
matter.  He  proved  himself  upon  them.  Their  wills 
were  bound.    Life  was  worth  living  for  that.     .     .     . 

Ireton  was  first  to  break  himself  free.  ''You  pro- 
fess yourself  traitor?"  he  said  sharply. 

"Little  words,  little  man,"  said  Royston  with  a 
smile. 

"You  shall  find  no  little  doom,  sirrah,"  Ireton 
sneered. 

"What  you  can  do,  will  it  make  me  fear?"  Roy- 
ston sneered. 

Then  Fairfax  started  up.  "Away !  Away !"  he 
cried,  flushing.  "Nay,  keep  Colonel  Stow  apart.  Let 
not  the  honest  man  be  defiled." 

Colonel  Royston  made  them  a  salute  of  mockery 
ere  he  turned. 

Colonel  Stow  hung  back  and  lingered  in  the  door- 
way. While  the  sergeant  strove  to  keep  them  apart, 
he  held  out  his  hand  to  his  friend.  Again  they 
looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  and  so  were  parted. 
Not  in  sorrow  or  any  shame.  The  last  hour 
had  worn  all  that  away.  The  tide  of  happiness  came 
upon  them  swift  resurgent.  Past  treasons  were  no 
matter.  The  last  trial  found  each  man  true.  Their 
souls  were  free.  They  stood  together  invincible  of 
the  powers  of  death  and  glad.    .    .    .    Glad.    .    .    . 


CHAPTER  FIFTY 

THE  LIEUTENANT  GENERAL  SPEAKS 

T  T  WAS  Fleetwood  who  began  devoutly  whining : 
-■-  "Why  dost  thou  show  me  iniquity  and  cause  me 
to  behold  grievance,  O  Lord  ?  Verily,  though  they 
dig  into  hell,  thence  shall  Thy  hand  take  them." 

"The  which  is  a  sweet  and  savory  comfort  to  Is- 
rael," said  Harrison  with  unction. 

"Nay,  but  the  Lord  hath  sent  serpents  and 
cockatrices  among  us  and  we  are  black,"  Fleetwood 
complained. 

"O,  sirs,"  said  Desborough,  with  simple  fervor, 
"'tis  sure  a  great  honor  unto  us  that  the  Lord  hath 
taken  thought  to  preserve  us  from  such  a  devil." 

At  this*Cromwell  made  strange  noises,  but  when 
they  looked  for  him  to  speak  there  came  nothing. 
His  face  was  near  purple  and  he  bit  his  lip  till  the 
blood  lay  upon  his  chin. 

Fleetwood  began  again  :  "It  is  written  in  the  book 
of  the  Prophet  Hosea " 

Ireton  made  an  exclamation  and  turned  noisily  to 
Fairfax:  "Well,  sir,  and  what  say  you  to  Colonel 
Stow's  part  now  ?" 

434 


THE  LIEUTENANT  GENERAL  SPEAKS   435 

"Why,  by  my  faith,  I  have  done  him  much  wrong. 
I  would  hold  it  honor  to  call  him  friend.    I " 

"Honor!  Honor!"  cried  Fleetwood.  "O,  sir, 
what  a  tinkling  cymbal  is  the  honor  of  men.  Let  us 
ask  if  he  be  a  savory  member  and  you  shall  find — " 

"A  weaver  of  webs,  a  thing  of  subtleties,"  quoth 
Lambert.  "Hear  me,  sirs.  This  corruption  of  man- 
ifold designs  likes  me  not.  It  is  written :  'He  that 
is  not  with  us,  is  against  us.'     That  suffices." 

"It  is  written  in  the  same  book,"  said  Ireton 
sweetly,  "  'he  that  is  not  against  us  is  with  us.'  " 

"Sir,  let  plain  men  be  the  judges  of  villainy." 

"And  folly  pass  sentence  on  crime." 

"This  is  unworthy,"  said  Fairfax  sharply,  and 
Lambert  muttered.  "Why,  gentlemen,  it's  surely 
clear  this  Colonel  Stow  hath  done  us  great  service  at 
peril  of  life  and  that  in  the  clean  impulse  of  honor. 
We  have  been  hardly  preserved  from  doing  a  hor- 
rid wrong.  But  as  for  the  other,  for  Colonel  Roy- 
ston,  I  do  profess " 

"Pray,  sir,  shall  we  not  have  done  with  Colonel 
Stow  first?"  said  Ireton  with  the  advocate's  instinct. 

"Why  shall  we  find  two  mouths?  Sure  all  will 
pronounce  him  guiltless." 

"Nay,  sir,  my  conscience  will  not  have  it  so," 
groaned  Fleetwood.  "I  suspicion  him  an  Amale- 
kite  in  grain." 

"O,  your  conscience,"  Fairfax  muttered.  "Will 
you  wait  your  turn,  sir?"  Pie  turned  to  Cromwell. 
"How  say  you?"     Cromwell  started  as  if  he  had 


436  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

heard  nothing.  "How  say  you,  sir,  of  Colonel 
Stow?" 

"He  shall  not  fail  or  be  discouraged,"  said 
Cromwell  in  a  strange  voice  of  dreams. 

It  took  Fairfax  a  moment  to  apprehend  that. 
Then  he  turned  to  old  Skippon.  "If  I  understand 
him,"  growled  Skippon,  "which  I  do  not,  he  hath 
served  us.    Acquit." 

"It  is  my  mind  that  he  hath  done  us  more  service 
than  we  can  well  pay,"  said  Ireton. 

That  was  enough.  Desborough  and  Whalley  fol- 
lowed their  leaders  faithfully.  Harrison  had  enough 
fire  in  his  own  wild  soul  to  honor  a.  knight  errant. 
They  carried  it.  Fleetwood  and  Lambert  snarled  in 
vain. 

Colonel  Stow  was  brought  in.  "Sir,"  said  Fair- 
fax, "we  have  done  you  wrong  and  you  much  service 
to  us.  I  thank  you.  You  are  free  to  go  where  you 
will.  I  pray  you  rest  in  this  town  a  while.  I  would 
know  more  of  you." 

Colonel  Stow  saluted,  "Sir,  if  you  count  yourself 
to  owe  me  anything,  I  would  it  might  serve  my 
friend." 

Fairfax  shook  his  head  and  when  Colonel  Stow 
would  have  spoken  held  up  his  hand  for  silence. 
"You  can  do  no  good,  sir,"  he  said  gravely. 

Colonel  Stow  saluted  again.  Indeed,  he  had  no 
hope.  The  law  of  war  could  not  permit  less  punish- 
ment than  death. 

When  he  was  gone  Fairfax  broke  out  in  a  hurry : 


THE  LIEUTENANT  GENERAL  SPEAKS   437 

"Here's  ill  work  to  do,  gentlemen.  Let  us  make 
short."  But  the  righteous  gentlemen  drew  together 
with  relish.  Now  there  was  no  occasion  for  mercy. 
They  were  free  to  be  the  executioners  of  Jehovah. 
And  their  own  moment  of  weakness  fired  them  to  re- 
venge. "Few  words,"  said  Fairfax.  "When  I  spoke 
first  of  treachery  I  had  little  thought  the  blackest 
traitor  was  of  ourselves.  'Tis  the  vilest  thing  I  have 
known.  A  manifold  devilish  falseness.  How  dare 
we  accuse  the  enemy,  when  they  find  one  of  our 
commission  double  their  villainy?  This  Colonel 
Royston.  Bah !  Let's  have  done.  Are  we  of  one 
mind?"  He  turned  to  Cromwell.  But  Cromwell 
waved  his  hand  and  the  question  went  to  Skippon. 

"Give  him  a  halter,"  growled  Skippon. 

Ireton  nodded. 

Fleetwood  had  no  notion  of  so  brief  a  verdict. 
The  occasion  was  altogether  delectable.  "O,  sirs," 
says  he,  licking  his  lips,  "this  is  a  great  villain  and 
hath  deceived  us  by  those  deeds  which  he  had  power 
to  do  in  the  might  of  the  beast.  Yea,  he  hath  the 
mark  of  the  beast  upon  his  right  hand  and  upon  his 
forehead.  But  worthy,  worthy  is  the  Lamb,  and  lo, 
we  are  preserved  even  out  of  the  hand  of  his  wick- 
edness. For  his  sins  have  reached  unto  Heaven,  and 
God  hath  remembrance  of  his  iniquities.  He  shall 
drink  of  the  wine  of  the  wrath  of  God  and  he  shall 
be  tormented  with  fire  and  brimstone;  yea,  the 
smoke  of  his  torment  shall  ascend  for  ever  and  ever, 
and  he  shall  have  no  rest  day  nor  night." 


438  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Colonel  Harrison?"  cried  Fairfax,  snatching  at 
the  first  pause. 

"Of  a  truth,  sir,  he  stinks  and  is  corrupt.  He  hath 
troubled  us.  The  Lord  shall  trouble  him.  Let  him 
die  the  death  of  Achan." 

"I  would  all  treason  were  as  clearly  known  as  this 
shall  be  swiftly  punished,"  said  Lambert. 

No  man  gainsaid. 

"There  is  one  voice,  then,"  said  Fairfax  in  a 
hurry,  loathing  the  task.     "Have  him  in !" 

But  Cromwell  clashed  his  clenched  hand  down  on 
the  table.  "I'm  absolute  for  life!"  It  came  upon 
them  like  a  cannon  shot  from  the  unknown.  They 
were  held  stupefied  at  gaze.  "What,  shall  we  be 
more  righteous  than  God?  Will  you  condemn  the 
penitent  thief?  Why,  sirs,  this  man  is  in  a  higher 
way.  He  hath  not  waited  for  the  cross  and  the  hour 
of  death.  We  held  him  of  the  saints ;  we  had  never 
known  his  sin,  but  that  he  humbled  himself  unto  us 
and  made  confession.  We  cry  out  upon  him.  I  wish 
none  of  us  may  be  so  deep  in  sin.  And  now  are  we 
to  use  his  repentance  to  his  death  ?  I  profess  I  will 
go  to  the  limit  of  my  strength  against  it.  Nay,  this 
is  to  assail  the  majesty  of  God.  Unto  Him  the  man 
hath  committed  his  case.  O  happy  choice!  Surely 
he  hath  liberated  his  soul.  But  he  is  not  penitent? 
But  he  boasts  of  his  sin  ?  O,  sirs,  who  gave  you  eyes 
that  see  men's  hearts  ?  I  tell  you,  I  have  seen  weak 
men  endued  with  strength,  strong  men  like  to  suck- 


THE  LIEUTENANT  GENERAL  SPEAKS   439 

lings  in  an  agony  of  spirit.  Man,  man,  is  it  for  you 
to  order  how  the  grace  of  God  shall  work  within  a 
man?  He  hath  a  brazen  forehead,  you  say?  Let 
him  have  what  he  will  before  men  so  he  wear  noth- 
ing but  meekness  and  truth  before  God.  And  what 
if  this  very  bold  boasting  be  but  an  armor  to  hold 
men  off  from  his  private  passages  with  his  Lord?  I 
would  know  who  dares  hold  him  wrong.  Look  to  it 
that  you  judge  not  in  a  private  anger.  He  will  not 
humble  himself  unto  you,  and  you  are  chafed.  Go, 
tell  that  upon  your  knees." 

"All  which  may  be  very  well,"  said  Lambert  stub- 
bornly. "But  I  know  well  the  man  is  a  traitor  at 
heart.  Ask  Ireton  there  if  he  did  not  ever  mistrust 
him ;  and  so  have  L  This  is  but  a  trick  to  save  the 
fellow  he  calls  friend  and  himself,  too,  if  he  can." 

"Of  a  truth  I  have  ever  seen  guile  in  liim,  and 
now  am  well  confirmed,"  said  Fleetwood. 

"Are  you  so?  Have  you  never  gone  amiss  in  read- 
ing the  hearts  of  men  ?  O,  sirs,  I  beseech  you  by  the 
bowels  of  God,  conceive  that  you  may  be  mistaken ! 
Believe  a  man  may  not  be  of  your  temper  and  yet 
acceptable  to  God.  Believe  he  may  traverse  strange 
ways  and  bring  forth  fruits  meet  for  repentance  at 
the  last.  He  hath  sinned;  O,  ay,  he  hath  sinned 
deeply,  and  there  must  be  punishment.  Sir,  I  de- 
clare as  I  hope  mine  own  salvation,  if  we  commit 
him  to  death  I  would  rather  be  himself  than  one  of 
us.     If  God  had  determined    his    death  would  He 


440  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

have  moved  the  man  to  repentance?  Of  a  surety  he 
was  granted  repentance  that  he  might  have  time  to 
work  the  works  of  repentance.  He  is  overgood  a 
soldier  of  God  to  send  to  death.  Do  I  say  then  he 
shall  have  no  punishment?  Nay,  truly.  He  hath  not 
sinned  unto  God  alone,  but  unto  men  and  unto  men 
he  must  atone.  .  .  .  He  may  not  command  in  the 
army  of  the  Lord  till  he  hath  purged  his  offense. 
This  is  my  sentence  then :  He  shall  be  taken  from  his 
office  and  made  a  common  soldier;  ay,  and  upon 
hard  service.  Let  him  be  sent  to  Colonel  Monck  to 
the  Welsh  war.  There  by  the  grace  of  God  he  shall 
approve  himself.  It's  an  easy  sentence  ?  It's  a  light 
punishment?  Nay,  speak  not  so  foolishly.  What's 
death  to  him?  He  hath  made  his  peace  with  God 
and  in  death  finds  all  his  hope.  Life  is  the  doom, 
life  wherein  he  must  serve  God  in  warring  with  sin, 
where  temptations  crowd  upon  him  all  day,  and  that 
old  serpent  lies  waiting  for  his  weakest  hours,  life 
that  is  the  trial  wherewith  he  shall  be  tried  anew.  I 
sentence  him  to  life.  So  may  God  do  His  will. 
That's  best." 

The  good  Desborough  was  forward  to  second  him, 
and  Harrison  cried  out:  "This  is  the  naked  sim- 
plicity of  Christ," 

"I  will  not  deny  it,"  quoth  Fleetwood.  "Let  the 
Lord  be  judge." 

Lambert  shrugged.  "It  is  your  way,  not  mine. 
I'll  take  it  for  your  account." 


THE  LIEUTENANT  GENERAL  SPEAKS   44i 

"O,  John  Lambert,  John  Lambert,"  cried  Crom- 
well, "it's  not  I  that  shall  answer  for  your  sentence." 

"So  be  it!"  said  Lambert  in  a  moment 

The  others  followed,  though  you  would  not  guess 
Ireton  well  pleased.  "I  am  out  of  all  this,"  grunted 
Skippon.     "I  am  a  soldier." 

Fairfax  turned  to  Cromwell.  "You  have  gone 
something  beyond  me,  sir,  but  I'll  not  deny  you.  Let 
him  live  and  God  help  him.  Do  you  choose  to 
charge  him?    I  do  not  see  my  part  in  it." 

"Nay,  sir,  nay,"  said  Cromwell  hastily;  "this  is 
your  office." 

"Well.     Have  him  in." 

Royston  came  erect,  unashamed.  Fairfax  met 
eyes  as  fearless  as  his  own.  "Colonel  Royston,  you 
have  convicted  yourself  of  a  vile  treason.  It  is  the 
sentence  of  the  court  that  you  shall  be  stripped  of 
your  rank  and  all  your  honor  and  serve  as  a  com- 
mon soldier.  You  will  go  under  guard  to  Colonel 
Monck  and  be  at  his  orders." 

Royston  was  plainly  amazed.  Then  all  his 
strength  was  shaken.  He  fought  hard  to  command 
himself.  "I — I  do  not  know  that  I  should  thank 
you,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "But  I  thank  you."  So  with 
his  head  fallen  on  his  breast,  he  went  out  to  make 
his  life  anew. 

When  the  Puritan  fervor  had  burned  itself  out, 
when  Monck  felt  the  time  come  to  change  sides  and 
strike  for  Charles    II,    there  was  chief  among  his 


442  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

aides  a  Colonel  Royston.  You  can  trace  him  very 
active  and  adroit  in  the  underground  work  of  the 
Restoration.  In  the  rotten  government  that  came,  in 
that  foul  court,  you  hear  of  a  Sir  George  Royston 
very  prosperous.  And  if  ever  you  come  upon  Lely's 
portrait  of  him  you  see  a  strong  man,  sated  and 
weary,  who  rated  life  low. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-ONE 

THE  LAST  INSPIRATION  OF  LUCINDA 

T  UCINDA  sat  in  the  twilight  There  was  not  a 
-■ — '  nerve  of  her  at  rest.  Her  bosom  beat  a  broken 
melody.  Her  hands  were  at  work  with  her  rings 
and  her  chain.  She  changed  her  cushions  and  her 
posture  each  moment.  Royston  tarried  too  long. 
She  had  no  fear  for  him.  Though  he  failed  her,  she 
had  never  doubted  of  the  final  victory  of  his 
brutal  strength  and  adroitness.  She  feared  him  too 
much.  But  she  was  hungry  for  certain  tidings  of 
the  other's  fate.  To  be  sure  of  his  death — that  was 
the  best  thing  life  could  give.  So  she  might  quench 
her  hopeless  yearning,  win  freedom  again,  be  again 
the  mistress  of  her  own  body  and  mind  and  use  their 
old  delights.  She  hated  him  as  a  prisoner  his  bonds. 
He  dared  impose  himself  upon  her  passion  and 
chain  her  with  regrets.  His  death  must  be  no  mere 
revenge,  though  that  were  sweet,  but  release,  full 
freedom  of  all  herself.  She  could  not  dream  of  love 
reaching  beyond  the  grave. 

While  she  fretted  there,  sudden,  silent,  a  man 
stood  before  her.  Colonel  StrozzI  saluted  with  a 
grin. 

443 


444  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

She  lay  back  on  her  cushions  still  and  quite  calm. 
"You  are  bold,"  she  said.  "I  think  you  do  not  know 
Colonel  Royston."  And  she  laughed.  "Good  sir, 
he  will  get  you  hanged  as  lightly  as  I  breathe." 

Colonel  Strozzi  continued  to  smile.  "There  was 
some  little  matter  of  a  contract,  madame,"  he  sug- 
gested. "And  for  hanging,  why  not  he  as  well 
as  I  ?" 

Lucinda  shrugged  daintily.  "Faith,  I  know  not, 
nor  care.** 

*    Strozzi  came  a  step  nearer.     "Be  sure,  madame, 
that  you  will  not  laugh  at  me." 

"You  are  more  amusing  than  you  suppose,  my 
poor  friend." 

"Yes,  you  have  cheated  me  neatly.  It  is  admitted. 
And  now  the  last  act  begins.  Last  night  your  bel 
ami,  George  Royston,  sustained  the  attack  of  the 
Palatine.  I  hear  his  dispositions  were  most  soldier- 
ly. In  fine,  he  shone  resplendent.  But  there  was  a 
contract,  Madame  I'Amoureuse,  and  this  is  not  what 
he  was  paid  for." 

"Blame  yourself  for  your  own  folly,"  cried  Lu- 
cinda. "You  were  given  your  chance  at  the  generals 
and  you  blundered  it." 

"That  is  another  hare,  my  dear,"  said  Strozzi 
pleasantly.  "I  choose  to  run  down  the  first.  There 
were  certain  moneys  paid.  I  am  not  used  to  pay 
for  nothing  and  I  do  not  like  it.  The  position, 
sweetheart,  Is  this:  George  Royston  has  played 
double  with  me  and  it  is  a  liberty  I  do  not  permit. 


THE    LAST    INSPIRATION  445 

He  will  convey  back  the  money  he  had  or  I  will  con- 
vey the  whole  story  to  the  generals." 

"And  so  get  yourself  hanged !"  Lucinda  laughed. 
"Yes,  sir,  I  believe  that." 

Strozzi  smiled  at  her.  "You  do  not  understand 
me,  my  dear.  I  resent  being  cheated.  It  is  true 
that  I  may  get  myself  in  some  danger.  I  shall  not 
care,  if  I  cry  quits  with  that  dear  Royston.  Believe 
me,  my  love,  I  shall.  If  he  will  surrender,  the  better 
for  him.  If  not,"  Strozzi's  amiable  smile  broad- 
ened, "the  more  pleasure  for  me.  Shall  we  hang  to- 
gether, dear?  Zip!  La,  la,  la,  la!"  He  made  the 
sound  of  the  jerking  rope  and  danced  a  grotesque 
parody  of  the  writhing  body. 

Lucinda  watched,  very  still.  "Why  are  you  so 
bitter  against  him  ?"  she  said.  "It  was  not  he,  it  was 
Colonel  Stow  that  spoiled  your  plan." 

Strozzi's  smile  was  swiftly  gone.  His  eyes 
gleamed  hate.  "Another  of  your  damned  lovers!" 
he  s,aid.  "Your  desires  are  too  general,  mistress." 
Then  he  laughed  again.  "Well,  he  is  paid.  Fat 
Tom  broke  his  skull  in  before  the  lobsters  came." 

"You  fool,"  said  Lucinda  quietly ;  "they  have  him 
here  alive." 

Strozzi  spat  a  hissing  Italian  oath.  "But  you  lie!" 
he  cried.  He  gripped  her  neck  and  turned  her  face 
roughly  to  what  light  there  was.  "Do  you  not  lie, 
strumpet?" 

While  their  eyes  fought  there  was  the  sound  of 
footsteps  in  the  flagged  passage  below  and  a  voice : 


446  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Mistress    Royston!      Mistress    Royston!      Is    she 
within?" 

Lucinda  started  up.  "It  is  Ireton!"  she  said  in  a 
swift  whisper,  and  flung  open  the  door  of  her  bed- 
room.    "Go  in,  go  in !" 

"Into  the  holy  of  holies?"  Strozzi  sneered  as  he 
went. 

Then  she  threw  herself  upon  the  cushions  again 
and  composed  herself  with  much  grace.  But  her 
bosom  was  wild  and  the  heavy  foot  on  the  stair  mad- 
dened her  with  its  delay. 

It  was  Ireton.  He  bowed  to  her  with  a  grave  re- 
spect. "I  come  on  a  sad  errand,  madame.  Pray,  be- 
lieve my  regret." 

"Why,  you  talk  riddles,  sir!" 

"The  answer  is  short  enough,  madame.  Your  hus- 
band has  lately  confessed  to  a  horrible  treason." 

"Confessed !" 

Ireton  looked  at  her  curiously.  "Ay,  madame; 
finding  a  friend  of  his,  a  Colonel  Stow,  of  the  King's 
army,  in  danger  by  his  offense,  he  confessed  all  to 
the  generals  in  council." 

There  was  silence  a  moment.  Lucinda  drew  a 
long  breath.  "Sure,  that  is  mighty  noble  in  him," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "But,  pray,  what  had  he  to 
confess  ?" 

"Madame,  you  have  heard  that  a  wicked  attack 
was  made  upon  the  generals  last  night.  At  noon  a 
court  was  held  to  try  a  prisoner,  this  Colonel  Stow, 
for  his  share  in  it.     He  told  an  honest  tale,  but  be- 


THE    LAST    INSPIRATION  447 

cause  he  would  not  say  what  he  knew  of  the  guilty, 
was  much  in  danger,  was  like  to  suffer.  Then,  moved 
by  his  peril,  Colonel  Royston  did  confess  all.  That 
himself  w,as  a  leader  in  this  devilish  design,  having 
sold  himself  to  one  Strozzi,  an  Italian,  to  procure  the 
generals'  murder." 

"O,  sir,  what  mighty  villainy  Is  this!"  (Ireton 
did  not  understand  her  tone.)  "Yea,  and  in  the  very 
camp  of  the  godly !" 

'T — I  feel  for  your  shame,"  said  Ireton. 

"You  are  most  gracious." 

"'Tis  at  least  some  pleasure  to  add  that  the  court 
found  room  for  mercy.  It  was  held  that  Colonel 
Royston's  honorable  confession  did  absolve  him 
from  the  common  doom  of  traitors.  Only  his  com- 
mand is  taken  from  him ;  he  is  to  fight  in  the  ranks." 

"This  is  mercy  indeed,"  said  Luclnda  In  a  low 
voice. 

Ireton,  peering  at  her  through  the  gloom,  could 
see  that  she  sat  at  her  ease,  still  and  unshaken  by 
any  sorrow.  "I  would  say  only  this  beside:  If  I 
can  serve  you  In  your  present  need,  madame,  I 
would  desire  it." 

He  waited  a  while.  She  answered  nothing.  He 
made  his  bow  and  left  her.  She  was  much  of  a  puz- 
zle to  him,  but  since  his  own  taste  was  for  a  daugh- 
ter of  Cromwell,  she  occupied  him  little. 

In  what  torment  he  left  her  you  may  guess.  If 
pain  In  another  be  the  due  of  pain,  Colonel  Stow's 
griefs  were  well  avenged.     This    last    blow    smote 


448  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

most  bitterly.  It  was  enough  that  he  should  bring 
to  nothing  her  scheme  of  grandeur.  To  win  back 
the  friend  she  had  stolen  from  him — he  could  have 
dealt  no  cruder  wound.  She  knew  shame.  Each 
hour  that  she  made  herself  the  plaything  of  Roy- 
ston's  desires  came  back  to  sting  her  pride.  He  cared 
no  more  than  she.  She  had  given  her  all  and  at  the 
first  chance  he  turned  back  from  her  to  his  friend. 
They  made  of  her  a  wanton  of  the  camp.  The  sweat 
was  on  her  brow  and  she  trembled.  Truly  he  had 
his  revenge.  He  kept  his  own  honor,  he  kept  his 
friend's  love.  Ay,  she  had  won  that  friend  to  her 
husband,  but  he  made  the  very  victory  pain.  She 
was  left  to  a  common  soldier  that  loathed  her.  She 
moaned  under  the  lash. 

It  was  not  of  her  nature  to  try  the  past  again,  to 
seek  how  she  had  been  in  fault  or  hold  herself  to 
blame.  She  was  a  creature  of  passion  and  uncon- 
querable will.  Now  the  pain  lashed  her  into  sharper 
hate.  She  gathered  herself  together  and  crouched 
upon  the  cushions  like  a  wild  beast  waiting  to 
spring.     .     .     . 

So  Strozzi  found  her.  He  tapped  her  shoulder 
before  she  saw  him. 

"You  heard?"  she  said  hoarsely. 

"It  seems  the  bel  ami  has  cheated  me  again." 

"He!  What  does  he  matter?  He  is  but  a  fool. 
'Tis  the  other  has  beaten  you — this  cursed  Colonel 
Stow.    Do  you  not  see?" 

"I  see,"  said  Strozzi. 


THE    LAST    INSPIRATION  449 

"Well!  'Tis  he  is  our  ruin.  He  spoils  all  and 
gains  by  it.  They  acquit  him;  they  honor  him; 
these  fools.     Are  you  a  man?    Do  you  dare?" 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  Strozzi. 

She  started  up.  "Do  you  need  anything?  Are 
you  equipped?" 

Strozzi  laughed. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-TWO 

LUCINDA  GOES  OUT  TO  THE  NIGHT 

LUCINDA  stole  out.  Night  lay  heavy  and  dark 
and  the  broad  street  was  still.  The  New  Model 
army  suffered  no  roysterers  nor  loungers.  But  it 
was  early  yet  and  many  a  window  shone  with  home- 
ly light. 

She  had  her  plan.  Ireton  had  been  amiable.  A 
pathetic  tale  to  Ireton  would  doubtless  find  out 
where  Colonel  Stow  might  be.  But  she  had  no  need 
of  it  In  an  upper  room,  his  face  sharp  outlined  be- 
tween her  and  the  light,  she  saw  the  face  that 
haunted  her.  She  shrank  back  into  the  shadow,  gaz- 
ing with  greedy  eyes.  Ay,  it  was  he.  The  clear  peal 
of  his  laughter  came  through  the  open  casement  and 
she  shuddered.  That  was  his  brother  at  the  foot  of 
the  table  and  by  his  right  hand,  smiling,  demure — 
you  may  fancy  the  words  Lucinda  found  for  her — 
Joan  Normandy.  Hate  spurred  her  shamed  heart 
anew.  She  heard  the  pleasant,  happy  nothings  of 
intimate  talk  and  sped  away  like  a  ghost  frightened 
of  human  things.    He  dared — he  dared  be  happy  ! 

To  that  dark  chamber  where  Strozzi  waited  she 
came  breathless.    Only  a  plump  gentleman  strolling 

450 


LUCINCA  GOES  OUT  TO  THE  NIGHT  451 

with  a  contemplative  evening  pipe  had  marked  her 
flitting.  "I  have  found  him.  He  is  with  his  brother. 
Close  by  the  Grammar  School.  I  saw  him  through 
the  lighted  window." 

"So."  Strozzi  gathered  his  cloak.  "That  suf- 
fices." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"Quien  sabe?  I  shall  not  lose  him.  Good-by, 
my  dear."  He  took  her  by  the  shoulders.  "You 
ought  to  have  been  mine,  you  know.  I'll  try  a  taste 
of  you."  He  caught  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  at  his 
will,  laughing  at  the  struggle  of  instinct.  "Yes,  you 
have  all  the  tricks.  So  now,  sweetheart,  you  had 
best  know  no  more  of  me.  My  love  to  the  next  man." 
And  he  was  gone,  but  Lucinda  followed. 

He  had  hardly  found  the  shadow  of  a  dark  entry 
when  she  was  beside  him.  He  muttered  a  foul  Ital- 
ian proverb  in  her  ear  and  translated  with  a  chuckle. 
But  she  hardly  heard.  Her  mind  was  set  on  those 
happy  people  in  the  light.  All  that  had  gone  before 
was  easy  to  bear  against  that  .  .  .  Envy  and 
covetousness  of  sex  and  fierce  mad  hate,  made  hell 
of  her  heart. 

At  last  the  happy  folk  were  moving.  They  passed 
from  the  lighted  room.  Colonel  Strozzi  lounged 
across  the  road,  wholly  at  ease,  and  Lucinda  sped 
after  him.  The  door  opened  and  David  Stow  stood 
on  the  threshold  looking  out.  He  drew  back  and 
Joan  Normandy  came,  little,  gray-cloaked.  Then 
Colonel   Stow.      Strozzi   saw   and   darted   forward 


452  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

with  swift,  silent  strides,  his  sword  bare,  hidden  be- 
hind him.  The  door  was  shut.  Joan  put  her  hand 
in  Colonel  Stow's  arm  and  they  walked  on  into  the 
dark.  Strozzi  sped  on  and  Lucinda  followed  him 
close. 

Even  as  they  passed  the  door  it  opened  again  and 
Alcibiade  came  out  with  a  cry:  "On  guard!"  and 
bounded  after  Strozzi. 

Colonel  Stow  flung  Joan  Normandy  on  and 
sprang  round,  plucking  at  his  sword.  But  Lucinda 
cast  herself  on  him,  pinioning  his  arm  and  Strozzi 
thrust  at  his  heart.  The  blade  sped  through  Lu- 
cinda's  side  and  breast  and  as  Strozzi  went  down 
with  his  spine  stabbed  asunder  and  Alcibiade  upon 
him,  Lucinda  swayed  heavily,  and  her  blood  ran 
down  upon  Colonel  Stow. 

He  held  her  away  from  him,  peering  where  the 
steel  was  set  in  her,  but  she  hung  lifeless  in  his 
arms. 

Joan  came  to  him,  crying  wildly,  "Are  you  hurt? 
Are  you  hurt?" 

"Nay,  not  I,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

She  saw  Lucinda's  face  and  gave  a  strange,  pas- 
sionate cry.     "She!    She  saved  you !" 

David  Stow  was  beside  him  now  and  Alcibiade 
was  up  and  many  a  man  hurrying. 

Colonel  Stow  laid  Lucinda  down  and  drew  off 
his  cloak  and  covered  her.  "Yes.  She  saved  me,'* 
he  said. 

It  was  over. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-THREE    • 

COLONEL  STOW  KNOWS  HIMSELF 

WAKING  late,  after  a  great  payment  of  over- 
due sleep,  Colonel  Stow  went  to  the  window 
in  his  brother's  bedgown.  The  morning  mists  were 
gone.  Red  roof  and  mellowing  tree  stood  sharp  in 
the  sunlight  and  the  grass  was  a  carpet  of  jewels. 
Much  had  passed  with  the  night.  He  rested  in  a 
strange  peace,  yet  hardly  dared  permit  himself 
rest. 

It  was  Matthieu-Marc  beside  him  with  a  tray. 
"Zounds,  the  Evangelist!"  Matthieu-Marc  beamed. 
"How  came  you  here?" 

Matthieu-Marc  groaned. 

"Sir,"  says  he,  recovering  himself,  "I  could  not 
believe  you  would  have  the  heart  to  eat  anything  un- 
less I  cooked  it." 

"Faith,  Matthieu,"  quoth  Colonel  Stow,  taking 
him  by  the  shoulder,  "you  serve  me  mightily  better 
than  I  serve  you." 

"Now,  that  is  what  I  complain  of,"  said  Mat- 
thieu-Marc peevishly.  "You  always  forget  your 
place.     And  the  truth  is  I  came  here  because  of  a 

453 


454  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

comely  maiden,  a  demoiselle  of  honor,  who  sur- 
passes her  sex,  and  wants  to  marry  me.  Alas !  Her 
one  fault,  sir.     The  fly  in  the  ointment." 

And  Matthieu-Marc  told  his  tale  and  Colonel 
Stow  ate  his  breakfast     . 

In  the  shadow  of  the  church  where  she  was  wed 
they  made  Lucinda's  grave  and  she  lay  at  rest  with 
roses  on  her  brow.  Royston  came,  but  the  grave 
was  between  him  and  Colonel  Stow.  There  was  no 
word  spoken,  for  no  help  lay  in  words.  Royston 
guessed  the  truth.  But  to  all  others  Lucinda  died 
in  honor.  The  thing  was  plain.  Strozzi  was  the 
villain.  In  a  rage  of  revenge  for  his  failure,  he  had 
broken  into  Lucinda's  lodging,  seeking  Royston's 
blood.  Balked  in  that,  he  bethought  him  of  Colonel 
Stow,  but  Lucinda  had  divined  his  intent  anl  fol- 
lowed and  paid  her  husband's  treason  with  her  life. 
Strozzi  was  flung  to  a  nameless  hole  in  the  fields, 
and  over  her  they  set  a  white  stone.  True,  noble 
heart ! 

You  may  fancy  Strozzi  in  that  world  beyond  the 
grave  with  his  natural  smile     .     . 

Before  the  army  marched,  Fairfax  desired  Colonel 
Stow  to  wait  on  him,  and  Colonel  Stow,  obedient, 
found  him  with  Ireton — a  pair  not  often  coupled. 
The  truth  is,  doubtless,  that  each  in  his. own  way — 
Fairfax  a  frank,  soldierly  Christian  with  no  taste 
for  exuberant  religion  and  a  strain  of  reckless  chiv- 
alry; Ireton  who  loved  the  extremes  of  his  own 
faith  not  much  better  than  the  high  Cavaliers  and 


COLONEL   STOW   KNOWS  HIMSELF     455 

was  feeling  already  for  a  band  of  moderate,  prac- 
tical men — they  felt  in  Colonel  Stow  a  kinship. 

Fairfax  welcomed  him  heartily  like  a  proved 
friend;  Ireton  put  on  a  reasonable  gaiety,  and  Colo- 
nel Stow  found  himself  comparing  their  ease  with 
the  swashbuckler  manners  of  Rupert  and  the  dreary 
haughtiness  of  the  King.  There  was  something,  yet 
not  too  much  of  thanks.  Then  Ireton,  "Since  we're 
frank,  sir,  I  have  wondered  more  than  a  little  what 
took  you  to  the  side  of  the  King." 

"Sir,  I  must  allow  you  to  wonder." 

"Well,  I  have  never  been  of  those  who  see  no  rea- 
son of  his  party.  But  I  think  it  has  been  plain  for 
long  there  is  no  hope  of  fair  dealing  in  him." 

"You  are  fighting  for  that  opinion,  sir." 

Fairfax  broke  out.  "We  have  nothing  to  hide,  sir. 
Why  should  you?  Can  you  fight  for  the  King 
again?" 

Colonel  Stow  hesitated.  But  he  knew  there  was 
no  reason.  He  was  for  ever  done  with  that  cause. 
"I  shall  not,  sir,"  he  said  deliberately. 

"I  thank  God  for  it,"  cried  Fairfax. 

"You  are  in  the  right,"  said  Ireton.  "Sir,  it's 
not  you  desert  the  cause,  but  the  cause  deserts  you. 
There's  no  place  in  it  now  for  honest  men.  The  past 
is  past.  The  only  hope  for  England  now  Is  in  us. 
We  can  bring  back  the  law  and  peace  and  strength. 
Is  it  worth  fighting  for?  Older  friends  of  the  King 
than  you  have  thought  so." 

"In  fine,  sir,  will  you  join  us?"  cried  Fairfax. 


456  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Colonel  Stow  did  not  answer.  Something  in  this 
kind  he  had  foreseen,  but  he  was  not  ready  for  it. 

"We  owe  you  no  less  than  a  place  of  some  honor," 
said  Ireton  softly. 

Fairfax  made  a  sound  of  disdain.  "Sir,  you've 
shown  us  that  no  cause  could  bind  you  to  dishonor. 
There's  a  matter  above  the  King's  cause  or  ours — 
the  commonweal  of  England.  Only  our  victory 
can  serve  that.  If  the  King  were  another — I  do 
not  say,  and  it's  no  matter.  Now  who  fights  for 
England  fights  for  us."  Still  Colonel  Stow  did  not 
answer.  "Why,  do  you  doubt  of  it?"  cried  Fairfax 
impatient. 

Colonel  Stow  looked  up.     "No,  sir,  not  that." 

"What  is  it  then?"  Fairfax  beat  on  the  table. 
"Speak  out,  man." 

"There  is  a  majority  and  the  first  regiment,"  said 
Ireton,  "if  all  goes  well." 

Fairfax  stood  up.  "Well,  take  your  time.  Let 
us  hear  from  you  to-night." 

"I  thank  you  heartily,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  and 
went  out. 

He  was  tempted.  A  regiment  In  the  best  army 
of  the  world  was  a  splendid  prize  for  his  heart. 
He  loved  his  trade  and  here  was  the  finest  chance 
to  work  at  it  a  man  could  hope.  He  saw  a  new 
fortune  given  him,  another  life.  He  might  yet  re- 
deem his  hopes.  Old  dreams  rose  again  imperious 
and  splendid.  How  could  he  dare  deny  them?  It 
was  to  play  the  coward,  to  fail  himself.     If  he  had 


COLONEL   STOW   KNOWS   HLMSELF     457 

faith  in  his  own  manhood,  he  must  challenge  fate 
again.  What  occasion  so  fair?  Surely  he  could  find 
no  way  of  life  so  happy.  The  chance  and  strain  of 
war,  that  was  very  Heaven  to  his  eager  temper  and 
swift  mind.  Ay,  on  all  counts  the  prize  was  good. 
But  he  longed  for  it  too  much  to  grasp  it  hastily. 

Out  beyond  the  town  on  the  level  road,  through 
the  smiling,  golden  corn,  he  went,  gazing  at  the 
sky  in  thought.  Indeed,  this  fell  the  very  matter  of 
his  own  desire.  He  was  hungry  to  prove  himself 
greater  than  the  chain  of  defeat  and  plot,  to  charge 
again  in  victory.  The  old  boyish  love  of  flashing 
deeds  rose  in  him.  If  he  did  so  much  with  that 
rabble  of  a  regiment,  in  that  welter  of  folly  with 
tlae  King,  what  might  he  achieve  now?  He  was  the 
better  soldier  by  two  campaigns,  by  a  new  skill  in 
licdge-row  and  highway  fighting.  He  permitted 
himself  joyful  vistas  of  triumph.  Fairfax  should 
have  a  good  bargain. 

He  halted.  Why  not?  What  hindered?  He  was 
his  own  man.  He  owed  nothing  to  the  King.  His 
loyalty  was  freed  when  he  was  cast  into  the  gloom 
of  Bocardo.  No  man  could  condemn  him.  He  had 
no  faintest  censure  for  himself.  Yet  he  faltered. 
There  was  a  doubt,  a  doubt  that  rose  stronger  and 
stronger  the  more  he  desired.  Once  before  he  had 
chosen  a  cause  for  which  he  had  no  faith.  He  told 
himself  that  this  was  mightily  different.  It  was  cer- 
tain, to  any  soldier  it  was  certain  as  day  and  night, 
that  the  Puritans  would  conquer.    Was  that  enough  ? 


458  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Against  his  will  he  knew  that  he  had  no  more  faith 
in  Puritan  than  King.  He  could  not  hold  their 
creed.  He  could  not  believe  that  Englishmen  would 
bend  to  their  over-saintly  rule.  He  saw  no  peace  in 
their  victory. 

Half  angry  with  himself  for  a  scrupulous  fool 
(that  must  needs  be  wiser  than  the  men  of  his  day, 
half  sad,  he  drove  himself  to  confess  that  he  was 
made  for  neither  cause.  He  could  not  believe  in  the 
King;  he  could  not  believe  in  the  Puritan;  was  it 
so  much  matter?  He  was  a  plain  soldier.  Nay,  but 
fighting  for  a  cause  he  could  not  hold,  he  had  gone 
too  near  shame  to  venture  honor  again.  What  then 
remained?  Go  back  to  the  corn  and  the  cattle,  live 
for  the  plow.     He  gave  a  doleful  sigh. 

Surely  a  man  had  a  right  to  risk  something  rather 
than  face  that  vegetable  life.  H  he  ventured  honor, 
why  there  was  something  not  base  in  the  venture. 
And  while  he  let  the  vision  of  triumph  come  again, 
he  found  himself  looking  into  the  maiden  honesty 
of  Joan's  eyes.  Well,  and  what  of  her?  She  had 
some  right  to  command  him,  and  she  would  desire 
him  take  her  cause.  If  he  dared  hope  for  her  be- 
neath his  heart,  sure  he  must  consent  to  fight  for 
her.  That  was  bare  manhood.  Nay,  what  welcome 
would  she  have  for  him  else?  If  he  denied  her,  if 
he  refused  her,  he  knew  she  would  bid  him  go. 
She,  too,  v/ent  with  the  prize.     He  was  tempted. 

He  had  come  near  the  place  where  he  had  seen 
her  first.     The  low  thatched  houses  of  Chinnor  were 


COLONEL    STOW   KNOWS   HIMSELF     459 

close  and  above  them  the  beech  woods,  golden  and 
gray,  rose  in  one  close  army  to  the  white  edge  of  the 
sky.  He  remembered  it  all.  His  own  gay  blood 
and  her  passion  of  righteousness.  .  .  .  Ay,  he 
needed  her.  All  the  eager  strength  in  him  longed 
for  her  purity.  .  .  .  Sure,  there  was  nothing  j 
else  in  the  world  made  a  man  so  glad  of  himself  as 
such  maidenhood.  .  .  .  He  might  take  her  if 
he  would  swear  her  faith.  Take  her  and  all  else 
that  he  wanted  still.    .    .    . 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-FOUR 

COLONEL  STOW  EXPLAINS  HIMSELF 

T  TIS  brother  was  waiting  for  him  in  plain  impa- 
•*•  -*-  tience.  Colonel  Stow  had  nothing  to  say. 
"The  General  was  to  make  you  an  offer,  I  have 
heard." 

"I  have  answered  it,"  said  Colonel  Stow. 

"Well?" 

"In  the  morning  I  go  home."  He  looked  up  and 
saw  his  brother's  face.     "I  am  sorry,  lad." 

David  Stow  sighed.  "You  are  still  against  us, 
then?" 

"Nay,  not  that  either.  I  think  I  was  born  out 
of  time.  I  can  find  no  faith  that  fits  my  soul,  nor 
no  cause  that  I  dare  fight  for.  And  so,"  he  gave  a 
whimsical  smile,  "and  so  I  will  e'en  go  into  my  cor- 
ner and  cry  like  a  child  because  the  world  has  no 
room  for  me." 

"I  would  to  God  that  you  were  one  of  us,"  said 
David  Stow  passionately. 

"And  I  would  thank  God  for  your  heart  that  I 
might  be.  Lad,  lad,  do  I  not  yearn  to  be  all  of 
your  cause?    There's  a  thousand  desires  bid  me  join 

460 


COLONEL  STOW  EXPLAINS  HIMSELF    461 

you,  and  one — above  all.  Well !  Each  has  his  own 
soul  to  work  out," 

"Unto  the  glory  of  God!" 

"Ay,  unto  the  glory  of  God,"  Colonel  Stow  re- 
peated. "Forgive  me,  lad.  I  can  not  find  my  work 
in  your  faith.  I  can  see  no  fruit  in  your  hopes. 
The  England  you  would  make  is  no  place  for  com- 
mon men.  You  put  your  trust  in  a  people  of 
saints — " 

"The  Kingdom  of  God  upon  earth !"  cried  David 
Stow.  "And  do  you  not  pray  'Thy  Kingdom 
come!'"  He  pleaded  his  creed  with  a  passionate 
strength.  They  would  beat  prelate  and  King,  and 
each  man  should  be  free  and  use  his  freedom  to  do 
the  will  of  God.  England  should  be  a  land  of 
stern  labor  and  passionate  worship,  with  no  thought 
of  other  matter.  Ay,  and  not  England  only.  The 
hour  had  come  for  a  new  crusade.  The  army  of 
the  saints  must  go  forth  into  all  the  earth  and  con- 
quer all  for  God. 

Colonel  Stow  listened  and  his  face  grew  sad. 
"God  help  you!"  he  said  slowly.  "O,  lad,  we  are 
not  all  Cromwells.  Who  else  could  work  such 
dreams  as  these?  We  have  to  work  for  human 
men." 

Again  the  brother  pleaded  with  him  in  the  zeal  of 
his  religion,  quickened  by  honest  love.  Plainly 
their  cause  was  conquering.  God  made  ready  His 
kingdom.  The  saints  should  triumph  and  multiply 
and  subdue  all  things  unto  them.      In   flashes  of 


462  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

strange  power  he  showed  a  quaint  picture  of  a  Puri- 
tan England,  a  Puritan  world,  behold  the  will  of 
God  incarnate. 

Colonel  Stow  shook  his  head.  "How  much  would 
I  give  to  believe  it?"  he  said  with  a  bitter  smile. 
"I  tell  you  I  have  tried  all  my  strength  to-day  to 
persuade  myself  into  it  Ay,  came  near  to  cheat 
my  own  soul." 

His  brother  was  silent.  They  changed  a  glance 
of  understanding  and  lingered  together  a  long 
while.  .  .  .  "Well !  I  have  a  good-by  to  say," 
said  Colonel  Stow. 

"I  am  sorry,"  his  brother  said.    "I  am  sorry.'* 

At  the  gate  of  the  hospital  Colonel  Stow  asked 
for  Mistress  Normandy,  and  being  admitted,  cross- 
ing the  pleasant  turf  of  the  close,  he  found  her.  She 
awaited  him,  still  and  very  pale.  She  seemed  to 
have  lost  something  of  her  charm.  He  had  never 
seen  her  afraid  before. 

"I  come  to  bid  you  farewell,  madame,"  said  Colo- 
nel Stow. 

"I — I  have  heard  the  army  marches," 

"I  go  home." 

He  would  not  look  at  her.  He  heard  the  murmur 
of  bees  among  the  honeysuckle.  The  wind  stirred 
lightly  in  the  tree-tops  and  a  faded  leaf  fluttered 
slowly  by.  "O  .  .  .  I  was  told  the  general 
would  give  you  a  command." 

"He  honored  me  so.  I  find  that  I  can  not  fight 
for  him." 


COLONEL  STOW  EXPLAINS  HIMSELF    463 

She  drew  in  her  breath.  "You  are  still  for  the 
King?" 

"Nor  that  either.  Faith,  madame,  I  am  a  weak- 
ling that  can  take  no  side  heartily,  and  so  slink  off." 

"You  are  done  with  fighting?"  she  said  quickly. 

Colonel  Stow  gave  a  grim  laugh.  "O,  ay,  the 
sword  is  a  plowshare  now  and  I  walk  in  the  furrow. 
I  have  done." 

"Why,  why,  then,  you  will  be — quite  safe — al- 
ways," she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Colonel  Stow  laughed.  "O,  yes,  I  preserve  my- 
self.    That's  vastly  pleasant." 

"There  may  be  work  for  you." 

"Ay,  with  the  cattle." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,"  she  said,  and  her 
lip  quivered. 

"Forgive  me,  child.  I  know  your  heart  can  not 
live  with  sneers.  You  have  been  the  sweetest  thing 
in  my  life.  Believe  me,  I  have  longed  to  fight  for 
you.  But  I  can  not  dare.  Your  faith  is  not  for  me. 
So  here's  an  end.  God  keep  you."  He  held  out  his 
hand. 

Her  eyes  sought  his  bravely.  Blood  stole  back  to 
her  cheeks.     "You  are  in  haste,"  she  said. 

"There's  no  more  use  in  words." 

"So  they  must  all  be  yours?" 

Colonel  Stow  allowed  himself  a  melancholy  smile. 
She  too  would  be  pleading,  then ;  well,  he  had  con- 
quered his  own  longing.  "I  am  your  servant,"  he 
said  with  plain  regret. 


464  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Had  you  thought  I  might  want  to  make  an  end, 
too?"  she  said  with  something  of  a  shy  laugh  in  her 
eyes.     "Not  this  one?" 

"Madame,  I  would  to  God  that  it  might  be!" 
said  Colonel  Stow  miserably.  "I  have  used  all  my 
strength  to  be  like  you," 

"Oh !"  She  was  plainly  surprised.  "I  would  not 
desire  that." 

"I  can  not  be  of  your  army,  of  your  cause,  of  your 
faith." 

She  considered  him  with  eyes  grave  as  his  own. 
"Perhaps  you  did  not  desire." 

"We'll  not  talk  of  that,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  and 
avoided  her  eyes. 

Her  sigh  was  something  weary.  "I  do  not  think 
God  would  have  every  man  alike,"  she  said.  "And, 
truly,  all  can  not  come  to  Him  by  the  same  way. 
.  .  .  But,  surely,  it  needs  not  that  they  should 
hate  each  other?" 

"I  shall  honor  you  all  my  life,  child,"  said  Colonel 
Stow.  She  frowned  a  little  and  the  wide  eyes  were 
troubled.  "One  does  not  seek  that — that  another — 
should  be  just  as  oneself."  And  on  a  sudden  she 
^was  all  trembling.  "H — if  one  were  let  serve  and — 
he  cared  to  help — " 

Colonel  Stow  woke  at  last.  He  snatched  at  her 
hands  and  drew  her  close.  As  her  breast  touched 
his  she  was  still  again.  He  looked  down  into  her 
shining  eyes.  She  did  not  deny  him,  but  her  cheeks 
were  crimson.  "It's  for  me,  child?"  he  said  hoarsely. 


COLONEL  STOW  EXPLAINS  HIMSELF    465 

But  she  cried  out,  she  started  away.  "Ah,  no,  no  ! 
Not  unless  you  need  me  utterly,  unless  I  bring  you 
life."  He  smiled  a  little.  "You  are  not  sure  and 
we  must  not,"  she  cried  in  a  piteous  voice.  "Unless 
you  are  bidden,  unless  you  can  no  other,  I  had 
rather  die." 

"I  have  been  fighting  my  heart  all  day,  child," 
said  Colonel  Stow.  "It's  the  want  of  you  bade  me 
take  the  general's  commission.  I  have  almost  fan- 
cied myself  Puritan,  by  Heaven.  I  have  all  but 
played  my  own  soul  false,  for  fear  of  losing  you." 

"You !"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  of  a  mother's 
scorn,  and  looked  at  him  most  lovely,  smiling 
through  tears,  worshipping. 

"It  was  you  gave  mc  desire  of  life  again.  It's 
no  worth,  child,  if  you'll  not  give  me  life,  too — 
yourself — yourself." 

She  let  him  draw  her  close  and  he  held  her  and 
she  bowed  her  head  on  his  breast.  .  .  .  She 
was  still  and  silent  a  long  time,  then  looked  up  with 
a  little,  quaint  smile.     "You  want  me  so?" 

"I  want  life  and  the  work  of  life.  I  can  not  find 
it  without  you." 

"So.  It  is  so,"  she  murmured,  and  her  arms 
stole  about  him. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-FIVE 

THE  MASTER  OF  ALL 

'  I  "^HE  homestead  at  Broadfields  welcomed  them 
-*-  again.  It  was  an  afternoon  of  sunshine  when 
Alcibiade  found  Molly  behind  a  cow  with  melan- 
choly.    He  accused  her  of  it. 

"You  are  jealous,"  said  Molly,  "because  I  am 
going  to  be  a  bride." 

"I  can  certainly  never  be  that,"  said  Alcibiade 
with  a  sigh.     "Would  that  I  could  for  your  sake." 

"And  I  was  thinking,"  Molly  continued,  "of  my 
duty  to  him." 

"Poor  wretch,"  said  Alcibiade,  and  left  her  to  it. 

He  found  Matthieu-Marc  with  melancholy  in  the 
rickyard.     He  praised  domestic  bliss. 

Matthieu-Marc  exploded.  "I  adore  it,  do  you 
understand?    I  adore  it.    What  more  do  you  want?" 

"It  is  very  gentlemanly  of  you,  my  dear,"  said 
Alcibiade. 

Matthieu-Marc  snorted  for  some  time  and  then 
became  pensive.  "Any  man  that  is  a  man  would  sell 
his  boots  to  be  her  husband.  That  is  true.  The 
cook  told  me  so.  She  told  me  so  many  times.  She 
is  no  artist  either  as  a  cook  or  otherwise.     But  I — I 

466 


THE    MASTER    OF    ALL  467 

do  not  even  have  to  sell  my  boots.  Why  do  you 
think  she  wants  to  be  my  wife?" 

"My  poor  friend!"  Alclbiade  remonstrated  with 
such  modesty.  "Every  woman  who  sees  you  must 
want." 

"But  that  will  be  very  embarrassing  afterwards," 
said  Matthieu-Marc. 

"Marriage,"  said  Alcibiade,  "is  a  proof  of  faith, 
a  test  of  love  and  an  opportunity  for  charity.  But 
the  greatest  of  these  is  charity." 

"Charity,"  said  Matthieu-Marc,  "suffereth  much. 
And  is  blind.     I  have  such  good  eyes." 

"Believe  me,"  said  Alcibiade,  "they  are  nothing 
to  hers." 

"The  more  I  think  of  it,"  said  Matthieu-Marc 
with  decision,  "the  less  I  understand  it." 

"  'Tis  the  right  mark  of  a  husband,"  Alcibiade 
assured  him. 

At  which  point  Molly,  who  had  been  observing 
them  for  some  time,  arrived.  "My  dear!"  she 
cried,  holding  out  her  arms  to  Matthieu-Marc. 

"Precisely,"  said  Alcibiade  and  accepted  her. 

Matthieu-Marc  swore  in  joyful  French. 

But  Molly  was  trembling  and  crying  a  little. 
"Fie,"  said  Alcibiade.  "Remember  that  you  are  a 
bride." 

"  'Tis  more  than  you  deserve,  indeed,"  said  Molly 
to  his  shoulder. 

"You  may  say  the  same  of  every  man  alive.  We 
are  all  born  innocent.     Some  escape  punishment." 


468  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

Molly  laughed  down  at  Matthieu-Marc.  "It  is 
his  folly,  you  know,  that  makes  me  feel  safe  with 
him." 

Matthieu-Marc  began  to  sing  a  love  song  with 
fervor. 

Thereby  attracted,  Mr.  Stow  came  across  the  rick- 
yard  and  found  Alcibiade  with  Molly  in  an  ambigu- 
ous position.  "Why,  my  lass,"  quoth  he  with  a 
chuckle,  "I  thought  you  had  made  a  mistake." 

"If  you  please,  sir,  I  neyer  did,"  said  Molly. 

It  was  a  day  of  harvest.  The  sky  lay  cloudless 
and  lucid,  but  pale  and  on  the  near  horizon  pearly 
gray.  All  the  air  was  still  and  heavy  with  ripe 
fragrance  and  the  cornfield  laughed  through  a  gold- 
en haze.  On  the  orchard  bank,  in  among  the  mar- 
joram, Colonel  Stow  lay  and  contemplated  the 
world.  He  was  little  used  to  the  occupation  and  it 
irked,  but  the  contemplative  life  was  plainly  his  por- 
tion, and  he  set  himself  to  it  without  pity.  Truly 
his  lines  were  fallen  in  pleasant  places.  The  great 
homestead,  all  crimson  and  orange,  the  rich  lands 
of  the  vale,  golden  brown  to  harvest,  they  were  good 
to  see  and  sure  warrant  of  comfortable  days.  Ease 
— it  was  doubtless  something  to  give  thanks  for,  but 
hardly  the  best  a  man  could  desire.  He  looked  away 
to  the  hills.  Vast  in  the  haze  and  far  they  stood, 
like  power  incarnate,  towering  with  bluff  shoulders, 
stern  and  dark  and  bare,  above  the  sweets  of  har- 
vest. Ay,  to  them  his  soul  was  akin.  He  wanted 
the  hard  life  of  power,  to  breath  the  roaring  wind 


THE    MASTER    OF    ALL  469 

of  fight  and  break  the  crash  of  the  storm.  The  de- 
light of  straining  strength  was  Heaven  to  him.  He 
was  granted  the  life  of  the  vale. 

Well !  One  could  take  it  with  a  smile.  One  would 
not  employ  lamentations,  for  one  was  already  suf- 
ficiently ridiculous.  A  gentleman  who  could  find 
nothing  to  fight  for  was  plainly  too  good  for  this 
world,  like  the  white  pigs  one  killed  before  they 
were  weaned.  But  it  was  curious.  He  had  not 
been  wont  to  think  himself  so  superfine.  He  pro- 
tested to  his  conscience  he  was  even  as  other  men 
and  wholly  a  man  of  his  day,  yet  plainly  there  was 
no  cause  in  it  to  content  him.  More  thought  brought 
no  change  of  purpose.  He  was  ever  the  more  as- 
sured he  had  done  well  to  draw  back.  Ay,  every 
hour  he  was  less  Cavalier  and  less  Puritan.  He 
would  whistle  King  and  Bishop  down  the  wind  for 
a  free  man's  right  to  his  own  mind,  and  for  that 
same  right  laugh  at  all  the  savory  vessels  of  Puritan 
sainthood.  He  was  confirmed  in  a  zeal  of  modera- 
tion. But  that  was  no  standard  to  rally  battalions, 
no  cause  for  his  England.  Doubtless  a  day  might 
come  when  the  land  might  be  weary  of  either  faith, 
but  there  was  no  herald  of  it  yet,  and  the  daisies 
would  be  a-flower  on  his  grave  before  it  dawned.  He 
who  had  prided  himself  that  he  was  not  a  man  of 
to-morrow!  It  was  certainly  painful  to  be  at  odds 
with  his  own  day. 

And  still  one  might  take  it  with  a  smile.  He  owed 
her  that.  Such  as  she  quelled  all  the  regret  of  broken 


470  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

hopes  and  deeds  unachieved.  Upon  her  heart  he 
knew  the  pure  gladness  of  living,  the  joy  of  life  be- 
cause it  is  life,  the  most  wonderful  of  all  a  man 
knows  or  feels.  She  with  her  dower  of  purity  and 
quick  womanhood — what  more  dare  a  man  ask  of 
God?     .     .     . 

Ay,  truly,  in  the  days  of  dreams  there  had  been 
wild  hours  of  throbbing  delight.  They  could  not 
fade.  God  save  her !  God  who  gave  her  into  a 
troublous  world  with  little  help.  God  forgive  a 
man  who  failed.     Well.     It  was  done.     .     .     . 

But  there  was  no  reckoning  between  those  hours 
and  the  new  life.  Peace  had  come,  not  of  weariness 
or  sleep,  but  that  perfect  peace  of  the  freedom  of 
strength.  She  needed  all  and  gave  all  in  utter 
faith,  and  that  became  the  very  life  of  life.  Surely 
with  her  there  must  be  joy  and  the  quiet  mind  to 
the  end.  The  end?  Nay,  there  could  be  no  end  to 
this.  The  life  he  lived  with  her  could  not  die  when 
their  bodies  were  wearied  out.  That  was  the  great- 
est in  all  her  gifts.  Of  old  death  had  been  but 
death  to  him ;  no  matter  to  fear,  indeed ;  rather  the 
bitter  herb  that  gave  life  keen  savor ;  but  still  at  the 
last  life's  poison.  Now,  It  was  something  kindly 
and  welcome  in  its  hour.  When  death's  task  was 
done,  the  life  she  had  made  must  rise  at  last  in  the 
perfect  union  which  the  world's  way  would  not  suf- 
fer.    ... 

He  turned  to  see  Joan  standing  with  the  sunlight 
on  her  bosom    and  her,  face    laughing    from    the 


THE    MASTER    OF    ALL  4/1 

shadow.  Truly  the  world's  way  was  good.  Colonel 
Stow  resigned  the  contemplative  life. 

She  was  in  his  arms  beyond  hope,  all  fragrant, 
delicately  panting,  with  dark  roses  in  her  cheeks, 
when  behold  one  the  noise  of  whose  roaring  went 
before  him.  It  was  a  small,  sturdy  child,  who  can- 
tered upon  fat  legs,  wielding  a  lance  of  hollyhock. 

"Sir,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  "who  are  you?" 

"I  am  St.  George,"  said  the  child,  "and  you  are 
the  dwagon."  On  which  beast  he  then  howled  havoc 
with  saintly  zeal.  Colonel  Stow  exhibited  a  decent 
terror.  But  in  the  very  moment  of  tidy  slaughter 
St.  George  detected  an  impropriety.  "What  is  that 
lady?"  he  said  in  cold  reproof. 

"Sir,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  "she  is  the  dragon's 
wife." 

"You  did  not  ought  to  have  one  at  all,"  said  St. 
George.    "I  shall  take  her  wight  away." 

At  which  the  dragon  wept, 

"That  is  silly,"  said  St.  George.  "You  ought  to 
wear." 

And  straightway  the  dragon  ran  at  him  roaring 
and  St.  George  fled  with  joyful  screams,  but  re- 
turning smote  the  dragon  a  mortal  thrust  in  the 
region  of  the  lower  shin,  so  that  he  sat  upon  the  or- 
chard bank  and  gave  up  the  ghost  in  very  delectable 
groans.  "Antony  Jewemiah  Higgs,"  said  he,  "you 
have  been  the  death  of  me.    Which  I  think  unkind." 

"But  I  have  bwoke  my  lance,"  said  Antony  Jewe- 
miah Higgs.    "Make  me  anuvver." 


472  COLONEL    GREATHEART 

"Sir,  you  are  unreasonable,"  said  the  dead 
dragon. 

"But  I  want  it,"  said  Antony  Jewemiah  Higg-s, 
preserving  the  absolute  calm  of  monarchial  minds. 

"That  is  certainly  a  reason,"  said  the  dead  dragon 
and  came  to  life. 

"I,"  said  Antony  Jewemiah  Higgs  plaintively,  "I 
am  not  allowed  to  cut  fings  out  of  the  hedge,"  and 
he  looked  with  intent  at  Colonel  Stow. 

"But  I  am,"  said  Colonel  Stow,  "so  you  see  the 
use  of  keeping  dragons  about  you." 

"I  will  not  kill  you  again  to-day,"  said  Antony 
generously. 

"It  is  a  consideration.  Lead  on!"  said  Colonel 
Stow.  And  Antony  Jewemiah  bounded  away.  But 
Colonel  Stow  lingered  to  draw  Joan  to  his  side. 
Slowly  they  went,  smiling  at  the  child,  silent.  Joan 
blushed,  and,  yielding  all  herself  to  Colonel  Stow's 
insistent  arm,  was  held  very  close.  She  let  her  fair 
head  lie  upon  his  breast.     She  trembled. 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


315 


liSi  W\ 

